


Is This a Joke? and Other Drabbles

by Mysdrym



Series: Andraste's Witch [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Romance, kinda smutty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 25,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysdrym/pseuds/Mysdrym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories that go along with Andraste's Witch, but don't fit directly into the story line. Mostly fluff with some angst tossed in. I rearranged the chapters a little, hence the name change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Is This A Joke?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine must deal with two unwilling recipients of Orlesian finery. Fluff.

“Is this a joke?”

Josephine looked up from her papers to see that Finley was holding up one of the gowns they had started for her—getting her to sit still for measurements had been a nightmare, and so they’d put as much of it together as possible without her present, so as to expedite the process. Thus, she was seeing many of these outfits for the first time when most would have had a little bit better of an idea as to what was being made for them.

Lowering her quill so that she could give Finley her full attention, Josephine called out to her as innocently as she could. “There is no problem with the gown, I hope?”

“This is a joke, right?” Finley finally tore her gaze away from the delicate gown she’d been holding as though it were some sort of poisonous snake—granted, she’d probably hold a poisonous snake a little more lovingly—and met Josephine’s, brow scrunched together in disbelief. “I am going there to stop an assassination. This will be…” 

“You are also going to be meeting in private with several other nobles, and they were saying the ball might go for three nights. Should you thwart the assassination on the first night, you could wear something fashionable the next two. It is a tad ridiculous, but the court will judge us on our presentation. To see you wearing the latest styles will help.”

Finley abruptly darted over to Josephine’s desk, leaning against it, ignoring the way she was wrinkling the fabric of the new garment where her hand pressed it into the wood. “For what purpose must I drown in cloth? Do the nobles fear I shall have too much range of motion if I dress practically?”

Josephine and Leliana had thought she might fight them on this, but that was fine. Josephine was prepared. Lightly resting her quill in her inkwell, she gathered up a few papers that were ready to be sent off, rising from her seat slowly. “You know, I do understand where you are coming from. It will be quite hard to fend off assassins in a dress. Once the official uniform is completed, I will call you back for that fitting.”

Finley stood a little straighter, nodding.

As Josephine slipped out from behind her desk, she sighed. “It is a shame, though. Our dear commander was so looking forward to seeing you in a dress. He said he thought you would look quite lovely.”

When she reached her door, she glanced back to see that Finley was staring down at the outfit she’d previously belittled, that earlier resolve wavering. “I guess I could try it on.”

…~…

“You’re joking.”

Josephine fought the urge to smile at the déjà vu, instead looking up innocently to see Cullen inspecting the uniform that had been laid out, as well as a few other formal outfits. Leliana had been reviewing a few reports with Josephine, and her gaze wandered toward the clothes she’d helped commission. Their dear spymaster did have an amazing eye for fashion.

Cullen had already set the formalwear down, a heavy frown in place. “It is an Orlesian court.”

“The Orlesian Court,” Leliana corrected.

“And you expect us to walk around without armor?” He crossed his arms across his chest, the tuft of fur around the neck of his surcoat seeming to bristle from the action. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t backstabbing the national Orlesian pastime?”

“It’s mostly metaphorical, you know,” Josephine teased. “Armor can not protect from that.”

Cullen simply let out a humph in response to that, glaring back down at the offending cloth.

“Commander,” Leliana said, her voice a little too sweet, as was custom when she was dealing with the man. “Trust is important. Should they feel we do not trust them, they will be quite offended. In the face of such an offense, they will likely plot against us.”

“So your logic is that since people will plot against us regardless, we should try to placate some.”

“The right noble in our corner could make for an entirely different experience at Halamshiral.”

With a scoff, Cullen shook his head. “The fact that we’re there to stop an assassination should draw those loyal to the crown to us, regardless.” He motioned with one hand toward the outfits laid out for him. “These are completely impractical. We could be clothing an entire orphanage with this—”

“Finley was excited to see you in the uniform,” Josephine interrupted, head dipped toward her latest letter, though she angled herself just so, so that she could peer up through her lashes at Cullen to see his response.

He’d stiffened at the mere mention of their Herald, a light dusting of red on his cheeks.

“She thought it would be fun for the two of you to match,” Leliana added, leaning toward Josephine as though her attention wasn’t on the commander. “She is a such a sweet girl, always excited by such simple things.”

“I…” Cullen’s words were failing him.

Smile looking almost wistful, Leliana sighed. “And you should have seen her twirling in that dress earlier.” With a shake of her head, she pushed herself away from Josephine’s desk. “I’ll go let her know that we won’t be wearing any finery in favor of more armor.”

As Leliana sauntered toward the door, her pace just a hair slower than she would usually use, Cullen’s shoulders slumped  in defeat. “Wait…I…maybe I can work with these…” He straightened up a little, resuming his earlier frown. “I’m still wearing my sword.” 

“Oh, of course.” 


	2. Feels Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff.

Metal clanged as the two swords struck one another. Dodging back, Cullen was already moving for another attack when he saw that his partner was yielding. Stopping himself before he could do any damage, he eyed Yorric Trevelyan, a single brow raised in silent question.

Both of them were shirtless and covered in sweat, having spent the last half hour sparring on the training grounds. Normally, Cullen trained in the mornings, but he’d needed to do inspections at the base camp in the valley, and hadn’t had time to work out properly today.

Ser Yorric had been Maker sent when he came in and offered that they relieve some stress. While Cullen wasn’t sure what the templar’s problems were—so far as he knew, Yorric and Cassandra were as madly in love as ever, with no complaints from either, aside from Yorric’s tendency to wear socks to bed—he had seemed to need to stretch his muscles just as much as Cullen.

Things had been going smoothly of late. There had been clear victories for the Inquisition against Corypheus and all in all, it felt like everything was fitting together, like they might actually be able to beat back an ancient Tevinter magister.

Just thinking of the monster made the pit in Cullen’s stomach return. It had nestled itself there a few weeks ago when he’d realized something that should have been obvious from the beginning, something he’d always known but had never really thought of.

He was going to have to send Finley up against Corypheus someday. And with the way things were going, it would be sooner than later.

He’d be there with her, he’d sworn himself this much. He wouldn’t let her fight that monster alone, but even so…

Even after seeing her fight demons at Adamant, and when they closed the Breach before Haven was ransacked, Cullen was still quietly terrified of what might happen.

Finley was capable, but it just took one misstep for even the most seasoned warrior to fall to an enemy’s blade. And it had happened before. She’d gotten too caught up in healing those around her to realize someone was coming up behind her, only to get stabbed—or kidnapped—and Cullen had been wracking his brain for exercises and routines to help her with her awareness.

“Did you want to go one more time?” Cullen asked Ser Yorric, nodding to the man.

His sparring partner was already running a cool, wet rag over his dark muscles, cooling down after their fight.

“I think someone’s waiting for you,” Ser Yorric offered, pausing to give someone behind Cullen a small wave.

Turning, Cullen couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips when he saw her there, leaning against the fence that enclosed the sparring ring. Pausing to say good night to Yorric, who simply grinned at him and waved him off, Cullen headed over to the fence, settling against it when he was across from Finley.

She reached out and brushed her fingers against his temple, tucking back one of his loose curls. Her fingertips lingered against his skin, and he reached up and caught her hand, pulling it down so that he could press a kiss into her palm. “Was I supposed to meet you?”

“No,” she replied, thumb stroking his cheek. “I’m supposed to be listening to one of Josephine’s reports about new noble support.”

“I shouldn’t keep you then.” Despite his words, he didn’t let go of her hand.

“You could walk me there,” she offered, blush creeping up her cheeks. “If you don’t need to go back to your office.”

“Let me get my shirt.” Cullen grinned when her gaze wandered down, clearly appreciating his form. Finally letting go of her, hurried over to where he and Ser Yorric had abandoned their shirts earlier. Only his was left, Ser Yorric having already disappeared for the night. As he walked back, he noticed that Finley’s gaze had never left him. He ducked under the fence, shirt already tugged into place, and Finley finally turned, matching his pace as they headed toward the main hall.

“Be careful,” Cullen warned as they reached the steps. “Someone might think you’re fond of me.”

Her arm looped through his, her body pressing against him. “We can’t have that.”

“What would the good people think?”

When she pressed a kiss to his shoulder, he stopped. With complete and utter disregard to whoever might be watching, he pulled her flush against him and kissed her. Fingers twined in hair as lips molded to lips, and for a few breathless seconds, she was his and his alone.

It was over far too quickly.

She let out a small laugh as they drew apart.

“What is it?”

She rested her head against his chest, breathing him in and seeming to forget that they’d been on the way to see Josephine. Her arms curled around his waist. “It’s just…silly, really.”

“Tell me.”

After a brief hesitation, she leaned back far enough that she could look up at him. She bit her lip a moment before finally saying, “I just…I never thought anywhere other than the Wilds would feel like home.” She shrugged weakly, hiding her face against his chest again. “But it does. Here. With you.”

For the first time that evening, Cullen forgot about Corypheus and demons and war plans. Instead, his world closed in on the two of them, everything beyond their little spot a mere haze. “You know what?” He offered, cupping her chin and pulling her face up to his. His lips ghosted across hers. “This does feel like home, doesn’t it?”

In response, she tugged him down to kiss him harder.


	3. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Finley's first meeting was not a smooth one.

There was a dull throbbing in his temples and an awful pressure just behind his eyes that promised to flourish into a full blown headache if his day didn’t start going better, and yet it didn’t seem that that anything could actually make the day better.

The Divine was dead, the conclave ruined, some no name apostate found in the ruins as the only survivor—they couldn’t even close the Breach properly—and this blasted table would not stop wobbling.

Even as Cullen hit his knees, testing the table with a bit more force than necessary to see which damned leg needed something shoved under it, he heard the door behind him open.  

Boots scuffed to a stop.

Silence.

If the person coming in was someone who was supposed to be delivering a message, they would have said something by now. The same was true if they were someone who was supposed to be in there.

Turning so that he could peer over his shoulder, Cullen stopped when he saw the young woman standing in the doorway, staring down at him with wide eyes.

Their—as the rumors said—Herald of Andraste.

He’d seen her twice, once when she was found in the wreckage and once when they brought her back from attempting to close the Breach. Both times she’d been unconscious, both times she’d been a mess, clothes torn and bloodied, hair all wild tangles.

He’d…somewhat expected her to look a little neater conscious.

“You needn’t stand in the doorway…” Cassandra’s voice came from behind her, and the apostate just about had a heart attack, whirling to the side so that she could keep both of them in her line of sight. She cringed away from Cassandra when the woman tried to put a hand on her shoulder, and he could see that Cassandra looked like she was having a hard time of dealing with her at all.

Leliana and Josephine slipped in after Cassandra, the apostate sticking close to the wall as though they might toss her on the table and skewer her at any second.

After a short silence, Josephine slipped over to where the skittish woman stood, eyes still wide as saucers, giving them a rather clear view of her magic-distorted irises. It made Cullen uneasy to see them.

Josephine offered the woman a short curtsey and a wide smile, as though she weren’t being watched like some sort of vile predator. “It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance…Finley, yes?”

“…Yes.”

The word was barely a whisper.

Smile never faltering, Josephine spun just enough so that she was facing the rest of the group, “Now then, I believe you have already met Cassandra and Leliana?” A timid nod. “Well, then. The only other introduction to make, assuming he has not done so already, would be Commander Cullen Rutherford, leader of the Inquisition’s armies.”

Cullen didn’t realize he’d been properly introduced until Josephine repeated his name and gave him a warning look. Coughing, he cleared his throat, stood quickly—too quickly, for he bumped the table and sent half a dozen markers teetering, if not outright falling over—and offered a hand to the woman. “It’s a pleasure…”

He wasn’t sure what to call her. Herald? Finley? The way she was eyeing him, the latter seemed far too casual, too invasive of her private space.

When she simply stared at him, making no move to take his hand, he slowly lowered it and turned to face the war table as Leliana began to explain their current predicament.

Maker help him, but his headache was going to win out.


	4. Stop Fussing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen braids Finley's hair. Fluff.

“I feel like you’re doing it wrong,” Finley muttered, sitting up a little bit straighter. The movement made Cullen’s fingers slide through her hair, and that sent a tingling sensation down her spine and all through her.

With a sigh, he leaned to the side so that he could catch her eye. “I grew up with two sisters. I know how to braid hair.”

“Two sisters you admit you haven’t seen in twenty years.” Finley argued, turning a little, though he caught her around the waist and pulled her back to him. “So unless you’ve just recently taken to keeping your hair short enough that it can’t be braided, I have my doubts.”

Cullen took in a deep through his nose, and then pulled her closer again, pushing her hair to one side and lightly nipping her neck. Before Finley realized it, she’d leaned back against him, head resting on his shoulder as he pressed kissed against her throat and jaw. “You know, if you doubt me so much, we could send for those ladies who were supposed to help you with this.”

Rather than answer, Finley simply groaned and curled closer to him. He was patient, waiting until she’d resigned herself that _someone_ was going to be doing her hair, because apparently her methods were unacceptable—and Josephine was having people work with her now so that she could ‘break her habit’ of picking at her hair when she was nervous before having to go in front of the Orlesian court.

For one of the few times in her life, she had a minimal number of tangles in her hair, mostly because she’d been tricked into sitting down and having it brushed this morning. When she’d attempted to insist that she could do it herself, somehow the conversation had turned to how adorable she was when she was with Cullen, and then how adorable Cullen was in general—she couldn’t really argue there, especially when she thought of him flustered—and then before she’d known it, Josephine was telling the ladies assisting them not to let Finley run because she had a meeting with a Denerim ambassador, and they’d already gotten through a third of her hair.

While she understood that Halamshiral required formal attire and looking ‘pristine’, she didn’t see what the big deal was. She’d gotten prettied up for Denerim and they hadn’t made such a big deal of it. And that was for both a king _and_ a queen, not just one empress.

She seemed to be the only one who thought numbers mattered in this, however.

Cullen’s fingers brushed against her scalp as he continued, so slowly, with the braid he was working into her hair. Something called an Orlesian braid, that started up higher on the head than the braids Finley usually did from the nape of her neck.

“How does a Ferelden even know an Orlesian braid, anyway?” She found herself picking at her shirt, as her hair was off limits. “Seems like treason to me.”

His hands slid out of her hair. “Do you want me to stop?”

While she wouldn’t admit it to most, she actually did like it when Cullen played with her hair. And the more she teased him, the longer he took. He likely did have other things to do, though, and it was selfish to waste his time like this. The fact that he’d taken any time for her should have been enough.

“No…” she mumbled, finally glancing back at him.

Reaching forward, he cupped a hand against her cheek and kissed her, long and slow. When he finally pulled away, he couldn’t help a grin. “Then stop fussing, and let me braid your hair.”


	5. A Quiet Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen catches Finley singing. Fluff.

“Finley,” Cullen said as he propped himself up on one elbow, his bed sheets falling down to bunch around his waist.

The lump under the covers beside him seemed to cringe in on itself as Finley’s muffled voice responded, “You weren’t supposed to hear.”

He moved closer to her, carefully resting his hand on top of where her shoulder was. When she didn’t say anything, he pulled his hand away and then jerked the covers over his head, moving under them until he could wrap his arms around her.  The tension in her lasted another second before she relaxed against him, skin against skin.

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” he offered, nuzzling his nose in her hair.

A few moments earlier, he’d woken to a soft voice singing a part of the Chant of Light, and it had taken him a moment to realize that it was Finley. She’d been playing with his hair, his head resting against her shoulder, his arms around her and her free hand resting on him.

It had been in that instant that he’d realized he’d never heard her sing before. Every now and then he’d allowed himself a soft line or two, and Finley always seemed to find solace in his voice, curling up beside him or sprawled out on top of him.

He’d never really thought much of it, but now…

When he’d realized it was her—it had to be as no one else was in the room with them—he’d sleepily complimented her, or so he’d thought. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d said, but it had been something about a Maker’s blessing or…

“You can’t tell anyone,” she whispered. Even under the sheets with her, her voice was still a little muffled.

“Alright,” he squeezed her gently. “Not a soul.”

Her hands found their way to his, and she laced their fingers together, seemingly content with his answer.

They lay there a few quite minutes before Cullen finally asked, “Is there a reason why? You have a pretty voice.”

Silence made all the more suffocating by the fact that they were under the covers settled over them for a breath before Finley finally answered. “Andraste sang.”

Cullen frowned at that, his mind still too sleep-muddled to follow along. “Yes…and?”

“And?” At that Finley shot up in bed, the covers practically flying off them. As she started talking, it was as much with her hands as her voice, irritation plastered to her features. “Oh, I don’t know. I would like to think it can’t get much worse than an entire cult of people following me around and calling me their Herald. Yet every time I think it can’t get worse, it _does_.” She looked at him pointedly. “Imagine what they’d do if they knew I could sing. I don’t know what could be worse than being a Herald of the Maker’s Bride, but I’m sure someone would think of it, and then I’d be _that_.” She fumbled for the words for a moment, and then threw her hands in the air. “Andraste’s reincarnation or something equally stupid!”

Cullen waited until she was only quietly seething before catching one of her hands and pressing a quick kiss to her palm. “If you’re Andraste’s reincarnation, who saved you from the Fade?”

With a huff, she fell back onto the bed, pausing to let out an ‘ow’ when she scraped her scalp against the headboard. There was a flicker of magic as she slid back under the covers and then it was gone. Sometimes it surprised him just how fast she could cast her healing spells. “It was an _example_.”

“Of course.” When she’d settled back on the bed, he pulled the covers back up and lay beside her, one arm resting across her waist. Even as she rested one of her arms with his, again lacing their fingers, he couldn’t help but grin. “I’d rather you not end up Andraste’s reincarnation. I don’t think I could share you with anyone else, even the Maker.”

“I will leave this room.”

“It’s _your_ room.”

“I’m serious. You can’t tell anyone.”

Smile slipping, Cullen sat up a little again, meeting her gaze. He gave her a firm nod. “I already said, not a soul.” As she sighed, he leaned down and kissed her shoulder. “But I’d like to hear you sing. Sometime when we’re alone.”

Her fingers curled in his unkempt hair and she kissed his temple. “We’ll see.”


	6. A Stupid Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rather harsh argument, Finley debates what to do when it comes to her and Cullen. Angsty angst. Also, kinda spoilerish.

Finley sat on the outer ledge of one of the northern towers built along the battlements, one leg tucked under her and the other dangling into the empty air as she stared down at a little piece of paper.

_Talk to me._

She idly traced the letters with a fingertip.

Their fight seemed…stupid wasn’t the word.

Except that it was. He was wrong, and she was right, and why did he have to push the matter?

He wanted her to say that they would have a future, that she could see them—as Sera so eloquently put it—as little, shriveled old people sitting together watching the sunset. She’d told him she didn’t like to think about next week, let alone years from now.

Because realistically, years from now people would forget that she’d been their savior—assuming they could even beat a darkspawn magister—and she’d just be another apostate to fear. He might not see her as a threat, but someone would.

All it would take is a failed crop or two and there’d be pitchforks at their doors. She didn’t doubt Cullen would fight for her—unless, no, he would—but then what?

They disappear into the Wilds to live out their days hoping the templar order didn’t reform and take up the hunt? Cullen had family, and even if he didn’t see much of them…there would be no getting letters in the Wilds.

The mark crackled, sending a lance of pain up her arm all the way to her shoulder this time.

It was stupid to think that far into the future. Why couldn’t he be happy with what they had now? Why wasn’t this enough?

He’d brought it up four days ago, and after she’d danced around the subject, he’d gotten frustrated and suddenly he had a lot of work to do and they could talk in the morning. Except they hadn’t.

And with each hour, Finley felt like everything was slipping away.

Her hand fucking hurt.

_Talk to me._

He’d reached out, though.

She’d been afraid he wouldn’t. On the second day after their fight, they’d had a war meeting, and he’d walked in as thought his bones had gone brittle, and he’d said the fewest words he’d needed to get the job done, dismissing himself as soon as his reports were dealt with.

She’d thought about going to talk to him, to be the one to offer a bridge across the gap, but she didn’t know what to say to make things right. ‘One of us will probably dead by the end of the year anyway, so what’s the problem?’ didn’t seem like it would fix much.

Below those three words he’d put to meet him in the Chantry room by the gardens. That he’d be there this evening.

Part of her just didn’t want to go. If she didn’t, it would be clear that things were over, and they could each move on.

But she didn’t want to move on. She didn’t want to wake up without him, to see him fall for someone else, to live knowing that she’d tossed away one of the few things that had ever happened to her. Maybe she’d die tomorrow for all she knew, but for however much time she had left, she did want it to be with him.

Maybe that would be enough.

Swinging up from her perch, she hauled herself back onto the safety of the tower’s open, top floor and then strode over to the ladder going down. Before she knew it, she was standing in front of the chantry room’s door. It was closed, which struck her as odd.

If it was her, she’d want a chance to see Cullen coming. Glancing down at the letter again, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“Cullen?”

There was no response. Not here yet, then.

Even as she read the words over again, wondering if there was a set time within the evening that she was supposed to be there, and if it had already happened, she paced into the room.

The mark throbbed angrily, but it wasn’t until she was rubbing her forearm that she realized a tingling sensation had started to overtake the rest of her. Snapping alert, she looked around until her gaze landed on a few barely visible runes scrawled across the walls.

Magic suppressants.

Cullen had…?

No.

Cullen wouldn’t do this.

Even as she took a step back, the edges of her mind grew hazy from the strength of the wards. She nearly lost her footing. Why would someone want to suppress her magic? All she did was—

Numb as she was, she didn’t even feel the blade go through her.

She looked down in time to see the tip of the longsword disappear back into her as it was withdrawn.

Red stained her shirt.

Finley felt like she might throw up. She hated the sight of blood.

While she was sure she’d been reaching for her wound, when she opened her eyes again she was staring up at the ceiling. No. There were stars overhead. And leaves.

A decent breeze, and she’d know she was home.

Even as she wondered why that word felt so empty, Cullen leaned into her view, pale and panicked, blood staining his shirt.

Was he hurt?

She reached out to heal him, but her magic didn’t want to listen.

Catching her hand with a bloody one, Cullen squeezed hers, tears pricking his eyes. “Finley? Finley, listen to me! You can’t die,” he choked on the word, abruptly letting go of her hand to put his down with his other on her stomach. “Please don’t die.”

He looked around and yelled for someone to hurry up.

As he looked back at her, she felt like crying herself. Maybe she was the one who’d been so stupid about everything. She loved him more than anything, and maybe that was something she should have been willing to fight for, instead of fearing pitchforked mobs that might never come.

“I love you.”

She wasn’t sure if the words reached her lips.

He was talking to her again, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying, the world was slipping into darker shades and all of her senses were dulling, being drowned out by another voice that had no actual sound.

**_Let me help._ **


	7. Are You Still Awake?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen gets a late night visitor. Pre-relationship fluff.

**“C** ullen.”

Cullen slowly opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling of his room. While he hadn’t been too close to falling asleep, he hadn’t been too far, either. Rather, he’d been in a sort of in-between phase, where his aches and exhaustion hadn’t been able to reach him. Now, however, a dull throb in the back of his head and a slight ache in his shoulder were coming to life, reminding him that he was still alive, still without lyrium, and still sore from Bull throwing him over the qunari’s shoulder in a sparring match.

“Cullen. Are you still awake…?”

Had it been anyone other than Finley, he would have been barking orders to get out of his tower unless the archdemon was upon them.

However, it was her voice drifting to him from the ladder leading up to his room.

Turning his head to the side, he could just see the top of her head poked up into his room, her orange hair looking almost gold in the moonlight coming in through his ceiling.

“Yes?” He offered when he heard her take in a breath to call his name again.

She started to pull herself up into his room, but paused, just a few inches higher. “Can I come up?”

“Let me get a shirt on,” Cullen mumbled, sitting up in bed and swinging the covers back. Thank the Maker he slept in his pants.

“It would probably be better if you didn’t.”

He paused, already half standing, to see Finley rounding the bottom of his bed. She stopped when she was standing beside him, eyes narrowed in the moonlight. “Bull said he hurt your shoulder.”

“He…” Cullen frowned, reaching over and rubbing at the spot that ached without meaning to. “I’m fine. Just a little sore.”

Her fingertips were already ghosting across his skin, and it sent a shiver through him. A part of him whispered that he should complain of aches in other places, just so he could feel her touch longer.

Knowing her, though, she’d call his bluff the second he tried.

And besides, that sort of behavior was hardly appropriate, especially when she was just trying to be kind.

He caught her hand and gently pulled it away. “If I thought I needed healing, I would come to you.” Even in the moonlight, he could see the skepticism flicker across her face. Ducking his head down a little closer to her, he gave her hand a squeeze before letting her go. “I promise.”

“You had better,” she replied, looking him over once more before reluctantly turning and heading back toward the ladder. Cullen had to fight the urge to ask her if she’d like to stay. Maker, but he needed to get over this foolish crush before he did something stupid.

“Cullen?”

He blinked out of his thoughts. She was already half out of sight on his ladder, fingers drumming against the top rung as she waited for him to answer. “Yes?”

“I…I would be sad. If something happened to you.”

Before he could answer, she’d disappeared downstairs. He heard one of his doors open softly and then shut, and he was left standing alone beside his bed, his heart not sure whether to dive or soar as his mind raced, wondering just what had prompted her to say such a thing.


	8. Snow Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has references to a Cassandra/M!Trevelyan romance in it.
> 
> While overseeing the expansion of their base camp, a bit of fun ensues. Fluff.

“Don’t you dare throw that snowba—Maker dammit, that’s cold!”

Cullen’s, Cassandra’s, and Ser Barris’ eyes widened as they turned with growing incredulity to see that Ser Yorric Trevelyan was trying to fend off a veritable army of small children, each eagerly wielding the valley’s snow against him. One of the children had climbed up onto his back—might have launched himself from one of the tops of the small buildings that had been crafted since the base camp’s founding—and from the way Ser Yorric had his eyes screwed shut, it was rather apparent that the child had shoved snow down his back.

Considering how hard it was to remove armor, he’d be freezing for a while.

When he finally opened his eyes, he paused, shoulders slightly hunched and child still clinging to his shoulders, eyes wide and unsure if he should run or laugh. When Ser Yorric paused to glance over his shoulder and give the child one of his characteristic grins, the little one hopped from his back and ran with shrieking laughter back to his friends, all of whom had dropped their snowballs upon the higher ups having found out about their game.

Cullen was told that his gaze was often harsh, and he hoped he hadn’t been the sole cause for their abandonment of their fun, even if it had saved Ser Yorric.

As the templar jogged to catch up to the others, as though he hadn’t just been mobbed, Cullen turned back to the architect they’d come to meet.

When they’d made it to Skyhold, a little over a year ago, none of them could have known how much the Inquisition would grow. Just a month ago they’d begun discussions of putting together a few barracks and other buildings down along the river.

Now, there were half a dozen in the works, including an armory that would make it easier to uniform new soldiers without trying to cram everything into Skyhold itself. The architect had wanted to discuss civilian housing today.

While Cullen thought it was a good idea, there were so _many_ families who had come together to assist in whatever way they could. He was a little uneasy with the idea that they’d have to pick and choose who got houses first, and it felt unfair.

“You should be ashamed, cursing at children,” Cassandra chided when Ser Yorric was close enough that she could speak without raising her voice.

As he tried—and failed—to take the admonishment seriously, Cullen looked back at the architect. How to voice his concerns…? “What have you got as far as plans go?”

Funding for the houses would be another issue, too.

The woman presented drafts and budgets, and Ser Barris politely dismissed himself as the templars would likely not be involved with such matters, and he had his own orders to tend to. As he dragged Ser Yorric off, Cassandra looked after them with an almost wistful look.

“Missing him already?”

She scoffed. “He is a fool.”

“Your fool.”

With a quiet laugh, she turned her attention back to the drafts. “It is feasible.”

When they moved away to walk the area that was to be converted to housing, Cullen was surprised to find Finley there with Sera.

Again, there was a snow war ensuing with local children.

As they drew closer, the children took notice of them and quieted down, watching them come up as though they thought they would be told to go home. Cullen felt a pang of guilt as he tried not to look quite so serious.

Sera said something to one of the kids that he didn’t catch, for Finley jogged up to meet them, stopping in front of them. The architect gave a swift bow in greeting, and they finished their tour—so to speak—of the grounds. As Cassandra suggested they head back, Finley looped her arms around Cullen’s.

“What’s wrong?”

“This is a lot to think about,” he started. He didn’t doubt that he’d be arguing with her later about where they could get their resources from—Maker but she could be a pain when she felt they were deforesting too much of a particular area—but then he stopped when he realized she wasn’t buying it. Rolling his eyes, he pretended to inspect the camp that stretched out before them. “Children are afraid of me.”

She wound her hand down to lace her fingers with his, their palms pressed together. He wished he wasn’t wearing gloves. “You should have Sera help with that.”

“Oh?”

With a nod, she spun them so that they were walking back toward where the little ones had resumed their play, now that the adults were heading off. Sera was cackling gleefully as a few of them tried to take her on, dodging their attacks and rolling through the snow so that she ended up with more on her than if she’d just let them win.

“When I was younger, children used to always run from me,” Finley stated, stopping just short of the warzone.

“To be fair, you lived in a place renowned for witches,” Cullen offered. While he didn’t believe in them, he knew that the rumors were always there, and he didn’t doubt a child stumbling across someone with eyes like Finley’s would immediately think back to such myths and feel as though they’d come to life in front of them.

Sniffing delicately, Finley straightened up a little. “If you think me a witch, I would think you’d be more careful with calling me such.”

“You think?”

“I might turn you into a tree frog.”

At that, he laughed. “A tree frog? I think I’d be very cold as a tree frog. Unless I get to keep my armor.”

Finley’s eyes widened. “I could make you little armor and carry you on my shoulder.” She let go of him to cover her mouth, eyes sparkling. “You could wear a little fur mantle. Commander Croakerford.”

Cullen couldn’t help but smile at that. “I think you’re having a bit too much fun with this idea.” When she bit her lip, he gave her a warning look that quickly gave way into another smile. “If I wake up a frog, I’ll be very unhappy.”

Even as she started to reply, trying not to laugh, a snowball caught Cullen in the ear, light, fluffy, cold snow littering his hair and sliding down the collar of his armor. With an abrupt laugh, Finley covered her mouth, taking a few steps back.

The mini warzone had gone deathly quiet.

“Told you I could hit him,” Sera shouted, a bit louder than she needed to. Small gazes turned from one to the other and back.

Even as he tried to think of what to say, another snowball hit him in the chest. Looking back, he saw Finley had another ball of snow in hand, and she was already putting more space between them. Bending down, he picked up a handful of snow himself, pretended he was going to throw it at Finley and then turned and caught Sera off guard in the last second.

In no time, the air was filled with snow and laughter.


	9. Sleep Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finley talks to Cullen while he’s asleep. Fluff.

**F** inley cast a quick spell on her neck to banish the soreness there. She and Cullen had been sitting on that couch near the entrance of her room, going over reports. While he hadn’t said anything, he hadn’t needed to for her to know he was having withdrawal symptoms, and that they were hitting him hard.

She’d eased the tensions in his neck a few times, as well as numbed the headaches so that he could concentrate, but hers were temporary remedies at best, and she always felt guilty as her spells faded and his aches hit him all over again. She didn’t know how to heal addictions though—Cassandra had told her she doubted there was a cure for that.  Finley felt if she had some way to study such a thing, she could find one.

Maybe.

But she wouldn’t experiment on Cullen. Even if she meant well, it wouldn’t be right.

Even though she’d decided this, sworn it to herself, sometimes she regretted that she didn’t at least try something. When he hurt, he hurt _so_ much.

Yet he never complained.

Regardless, they’d managed to get through all the reports as her latest spells had been wearing off, and Cullen had suggested they stay on the couch for a few minutes before heading to bed. Finley had held her arms out to him, and he’d slumped down against her, head resting on her shoulder as he pulled her legs up and over his lap, turning her so that her back was against one of the armrests. He’d passed out so quickly, one arm draped over her and the other wrapped beneath her so that his palm pressed against the small of her back.

She ran her fingers through his hair, and he let out a soft grown before mumble a string of incoherent syllables.

Finley kept playing with his hair, ruining the meticulous style he put so much effort into so that she could play with his curls. “In a talkative mood tonight, are we?”

More mumbling.

“Alright, but nothing bad,” Finley ordered softly before kissing his temple. “Think happy things.”

In the midst of another string of meaningless syllables, the words ‘Finley’ and ‘can’t tell’ caught her attention.

It was probably awful of her, but she always talked back when he started talking in his sleep, and sometimes, he got more coherent. The first time, she’d thought she’d woken him with her shenanigans. However, he’d muttered something about the nugs not holding their shields right, and then gone back to incoherent mumbles.

While she really oughtn’t to play with him like this, she liked to think it was harmless. And maybe she even helped him not focus on the bad. There were quite a few nights where he cringed, mumbling names she didn’t know, and didn’t dare ask him about, and begging for their safety.

She’d tried to leave him his privacy during those nights, yet it was usually those nights that he was wrapped around her, clinging to her like he was about to drown in a stormy sea.

So instead, she talked about other things, nonsensical ones. Sometimes, he’d follow her conversation, talking about the bird army that they could train and how it would upset the fennecs to be left out. The more absurd it was, the quicker it seemed to shift his dreams and thoughts.

It didn’t always work, but it was something.

And she didn’t really dare to wake him up. She had, twice, when his dreams were at their worst, but the next day he would always be _so_ exhausted. So instead she tried to banish his dreams with words.

Tonight looked like it wouldn’t be a bad night, luckily enough.

He curled closer to her, grumbling her name again in his sleep, along with ‘can’t tell’.

“Oh, we definitely shouldn’t tell Finley,” she agreed, idly wondering what it was that shouldn’t be told, and if it was actually something, or if he was concerned she might be displeased with the way the fennecs held their daggers.

Non-magical dreams were so weird.

It was no wonder the creatures in the Fade were so confused by the real world. She’d heard a story from a friend of a friend who had said he saw a rage demon yelling at a squirrel, demanding it act with the honor he knew it to have. It had squeaked at him and scurried off, and the rage demon had apparently set the whole clearing on fire.

Poor squirrel.

Finley was glad she hadn’t been there to see it.

“Can’t,” Cullen agreed. He’d taken a while to respond, and she’d thought maybe he’d fallen into a deeper sleep. Hoped, really.

“Definitely not,” Finley replied, kissing his temple again. “Never ever.”

At that, he grumbled, tightening his grip on her a little as he pressed his face further into the crook of her neck. “Someday.”

Her fingers pulled gently at his curls as she stroked them. “Someday, then.”

“Just…don’t know how…” he mumbled. He said something after that she couldn’t catch.

“Well, you are brilliant, so I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Finley offered, stretching her free shoulder. She should have insisted they go lay down before letting him pass out. If she weren’t a healer, her body would have ended up so stiff in the morning that she’d barely be able to get up.

His breath tickled her neck. “Can’t just say…” he took a few breaths, voice drifting off.

Finley knew what he was getting at. He’d told her a few weeks ago in his sleep, and several times since. While she really should have brought it up to him when he was awake by now—it was selfish that she hadn’t—she liked having this secret. It made things so much easier.

Kissing his curls, she adjusted her arm that was wrapped around his shoulders as best she could, sinking down a little so that she could rest her neck better against the armrest. Cullen mumbled something in his sleep and adjusted himself accordingly, so that he could put his head back on her shoulder.

She bit back a laugh at that. Resting her hand in his hair, she closed her eyes. His dreams wouldn’t be too terrible tonight, so she could afford to get some sleep herself. “Can you keep a secret?”

His incoherent slur of syllables sounded like a question.

“I love you, too.”

She felt a smile against her shoulder, though it quickly slipped away as he rambled on, too slurred for her to follow. His tone was happier, though. Closing her eyes, she let her dreams reach up to claim her.

Love wasn’t perfect. There was fear of rejection and of the future, of loving too much and scaring off the other, fears for just about every aspect of it really. Even so, the fact that it was there was something that dulled those fears just a little.

Love wasn’t perfect, and _that_ was perfect for Finley.


	10. A Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Finley get into a fight thanks to one of her friends, and he has a startling revelation. Angst?

**“I** can’t believe you!”

Cullen had just sunken into paperwork, trying to rid his mind of the earlier events of the day. He’d barely had time for it to work before his door had swung open and Finley was there, fuming, inner fire fueling those already ethereal eyes of hers.

Bracing himself against his desk, his mouth formed a thin line as he looked up at her. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“You can do it later,” Finley snapped, striding across the room, not bothering to close the door behind her. Anyone outside would hear their argument. Lovely. “You need to go apologize to Donovan!”

Cullen’s eyes widened, and he shot to his feet. “I’m not apologizing to that neurotic—”

He cut himself off at that word as Finley straightened up, indignant.

Trying again, Cullen tried to stay calm. “The elf is crazy. Did you even listen to the things he was telling you? He won’t be happy unless you’re terrified to even close your eyes around a templar!”

“He’s _worried_ I’ll get _hurt_ ,” Finley hissed back. “He’s been one of the _few_ constants in my life, and _you_ can’t just dismiss him like that!”

“Did you ever consider that without him, you might not be scared of _everything_?” Cullen snapped back. He stalked around his desk and slammed the door closed when he saw one of his patrols peeking in. They’d scurried off well before he reached the door, but he had no doubt that Skyhold would soon be abuzz with how the Inquisitor and Commander were fighting.

“I’m not scared of everything.”

“Aren’t you?” Cullen whirled to face her again. She was standing her ground in the middle of his office, as though that alone would somehow prove him wrong. “You’re scared of Ser Jensen, Ser Yorric, other templars who have been nothing but loyal to you. If a templar looks your way, you have to fight not to panic!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “You accidentally mention something that might be related to the Wilds and get terrified that you’ve just…I don’t even know. You’re so afraid of telling me anything!”

“And that has nothing to do with Donovan!”

“Doesn’t it?” As he asked, he stepped closer to her until he was standing in front of her. Maker, he wanted to reach out and shake her. It was no wonder she’d ended up so paranoid, if that elf had really been the one caring for her in the Wilds. Five minutes with him and Cullen had wanted to toss him off the ramparts.

“He’s helped me! He saved me from templars on more than one occasion!” Finley insisted. There was hurt in her voice. “Maybe you aren’t aware, but templars don’t go into the Wilds to bring mages back _with_ them!”

“Yes they do!” Cullen wanted to scream. “I’ve seen those orders issued! They are _always_ supposed to bring the mage back alive, if possible!”

“Well, they tended to forget those orders whenever they came across _me_ ,” Finley retorted, taking a step back from him. “The only times templars ever offered to share a fire or acted kind were times when another one was sneaking up behind me to…” She crossed her arms abruptly, glaring toward his desk rather than him. “Donovan’s had to patch me up after plenty of templar encounters, and he’s not just ‘making up stories’.”

Cullen hadn’t known what to say until that last comment, at which point he felt rage boiling inside of him. That she would use the words he’d said as he’d excused himself from that elf’s company… “He told you _I_ was going to stab you!”

“And I told him you weren’t,” Finley shot back. She shook her head. “I _know_ you’re not a templar, but you do still sort of feel like one. Once he understands that you’re not, he’ll settle down.”

“So if I was still a templar…” Cullen started, but stopped himself. It had never occurred to him until that moment just how important that declaration was to Finley. That he’d left the Order behind had been a personal issue, one he’d woken up some nights regretting, and yet…

He didn’t understand what it meant to her.

Her arms were still crossed as she appraised him, gaze darting over him, taking him in almost as though she didn’t know him.

“You’re _not_ a templar,” she finally whispered. She nodded, more for herself than for him. That anger flickered back to life in her eyes. “And you’re _going_ to apologize to Donovan.”


	11. Shaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finley comes to check on Cullen when he’s late and finds that her and Sera’s prank may have gone too far. Fluff.

**“C** ullen?” Finley trotted into his office, glancing around. He’d said he would be up to bed half an hour ago, and yet he hadn’t shown up. While she’d considered going to sleep without him, she found that the mere thought was unappealing, and doubted she’d do better trying to sleep alone. It was a little…she wasn’t sure what it was to realize that she needed someone else to sleep. Pleasant, annoying, wanted, anxiety inducing?

Yet there it was.

She needed him.

She needed a man who, if they ever had to flee from templars, would likely not want to run. She could foresee problems with that, though she’d managed to push them into that convenient little corner of her mind that she denied existed. Those worries could sit there forever for all she cared.

Preferred, really.

Regardless of whether it was good or not, she needed him, and so she’d gone to find out what was making him so late—he very rarely showed up to anything late, and when he did, it was always with good reason. 

Even as she wondered where he might be since his room was empty, Cullen’s head popped up from behind his desk, his hair a little frazzled and a look of incredulous anger on his face as his hands slid on the edge of the desk.

He pressed down, and it wobbled.

Finley’s eyes widened slightly as she watched his gaze sweep over his desk before it snapped up to her briefly.

“It was fine. For over a year, it was fine,” Cullen murmured, ducking back down behind the desk. It wobbled slowly as he tested it, trying to figure out which leg was damaged.

Sera had been rather disappointed to hear that Cullen hadn’t seemed affected by their little prank. One of the scouts had seen him notice his desk wobble, but he hadn’t reacted to it, instead going about his business, though he made sure not to lean on or against his desk again.

Apparently he’d been more affected by their prank than they’d realized…or intended.

Finley walked slowly around the desk until she could see Cullen, on his knees, rocking the desk a little every few minutes, gaze sweeping from one leg to another.

“You’ve been…trying to fix this for a while?” Finley asked, not sure if she should laugh or be worried.

“Of course not,” Cullen muttered. “I’m not inept. It just took longer to do my paperwork with this damned thing…” He hit the desk, and it wobbled again.  

Finley dropped to her knees beside him, trying to remember which leg Sera had tucked that thing underneath. Finley thought back to the wobbly table from Haven and then moved to the outer side of the desk. “Here, you shake it, and I’ll see if I can find anything on this side. It’s got to be hard to see from under there.”

“It’s hard to see from any angle,” Cullen muttered, though he reached out and caught her ankle, squeezing it gently before he let her go. “Thank you.”

As soon as she’d laid out on the floor so that she could get the best view of the bottom of the legs, she realized that it really was next to impossible to see underneath them. It was no wonder he hadn’t found which leg was the problem yet.

She made a point to inspect a few of them before finally calling for him to stop. “I think there’s something under this one. If you can lift it, maybe I can get it out?”

Cullen was beside her in an instant, peering down at the leg with that same incredulous look from earlier. With no prodding, he was on his feet, gripped his desk, and hoisted it up about an inch. Finley grabbed the little bit of wood that had been used to cause him distress, and then sat up.

Despite being frustrated, he still set his desk down with great care. When it was in place, he tried rocking it a few times before he was finally content that it was indeed fixed. With a sigh, he leaned against the desk and ran his hands down his face. “Thank you.”

Even as Finley tried to assure him it was nothing—aside from guilt building in her mind as she hadn’t realized it would upset him so—he pulled her to him and kissed her. As his lips molded to hers, she somewhat forgot the dilemma, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning into him.

When they broke for breath, however, Cullen lightly ran a hand up her arm until he could claim the wood chip from her. Holding it up, he shook his head. “How could something even…” His gaze narrowed. “Sera.”

“You don’t know that,” Finley insisted, a bit too quickly.

Suspicion sparked in his eyes, though he smoothed his expression quickly. “Oh?”  

Finley shrugged as innocently as she could. “Well, we fixed it…that’s what matters, right?”

Dropping the wood chip on his desk, he looped both arms around her, seeming to consider just what to say to that. After a moment, he leaned his head forward, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’m going to get you back for this.”


	12. Hopping Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen finds Finley acting very strangely. Humor.

“Inquisitor—” Cullen cut himself off as he saw the frightened-animal look settle on Finley’s features, her head whipping toward him, arms clutching a medium sized box she was carrying to her a little bit tighter. It had been quite some time since she’d reacted to him thus, and he was somewhat taken aback by the display. The two of them stood there in the intersecting hallways for a few moments before Cullen finally crossed his arms, his earlier thoughts of greeting and the like all but lost to him. “What’s with the box?”

“Must there be something with it?” Finley replied almost instantly, shrugging as though to make light of her earlier actions. “Honestly, you Lowlands creatures are so odd with your need for everything to have some greater meaning or point. Perhaps it is just a box, and I felt like—”

She was interrupted by a ribbit.

Silence resumed between them as they stared at one another.

Finally, Cullen pointed at the box. “Is there a frog in there?”

“No,” Finley said a bit too quickly, straightening up and adjusting her grip. “There are no frogs.”

“Inquisitor, if someone sent you a frog, we need to address this.” Cullen started to breach the distance between them, but stopped before he’d taken a full step. He could have sworn Finley was ready to bolt. “It’s bad enough that there are some people who think you’re an actual witch. We don’t need rumors of you carting around reptiles—”

“Frogs are not reptiles,” Finley murmured, interrupting him. She coughed a little to clear her throat and then shrugged again. “Though, your point is made, and it is therefore a fortunate thing that I’m not carting around any frogs.”

Another ribbit.

“What _is_ in the box?”

“Hmm?” Her voice seemed a little strained.

Before Cullen could ask further, Dorian and Dalish seemed to tumble out of nowhere, old tomes and odd ingredients in arm, respectively. Dorian was already flipping awkwardly through one tome with another about to fall out from under his arm. “I must say, but I didn’t think this was actually something that could be done, that it was rather one of those rumors that came about from years of—”

He stopped midsentence when he noticed Cullen and then gave him a brilliant smile. “Commander Rutherford. Good to see you. I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing with a friend or two, and I think our next game will go in my favor.”

Rather than take the bait, Cullen crossed his arms, inspecting the ingredients that Dalish was trying to hide behind Dorian and Finley with more care. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” the three of them said in unison.

Narrowing his eyes, Cullen took a few steps toward them. “What’s in the box?” His mind kept going back to all the old myths about witches that he didn’t believe in, and he was having a very hard time not asking if there was a person in that box. That would be foolish, at best.

Everyone knew mages couldn’t _actually_ polymorph people into animals.

There were a few tense moments where the mages glanced at one another, trying to figure out who should explain whatever was going on and what to say.

“Commander! I have that report you were asking about!”

Cullen turned to see that scout that seemed to have the worst timing in Thedas jogging through the halls to him. Even as he gave the man a quick wave of acknowledgement, he looked back over his shoulder and frowned.

All three of the mages were gone. 

Cullen glanced down each of the halls, frowning when he couldn’t so much as see or hear a door clicking shut.

“Ser?” Scout Jim was right beside him now, winded.

Taking the papers from him, Cullen gave the halls one last look over before resigning himself to the fact that he would have to find out what this was about later. After all, he wasn’t a templar anymore, so chasing down mages because they were acting odd—incredibly odd…and suspicious—was not his job. He had an army to run.

And they were having a war meeting that evening, so Finley couldn’t avoid him forever.

As he looked down at the report, he frowned. “What…this can’t be right…”

….-…

Several months later….

Cullen was just drifting to sleep, one of his hands tangled in Finley’s hair, her head resting against his shoulder, content with the way his life had turned around, when his eyes snapped open.

“Finley.”

“Hmmm?” She sounded like she was about to fall asleep.

“What was in that box?”


	13. Signals Lost

**C** ullen knocked on the door to Finley’s chambers before entering, a habit she’d asked him to forgo, though common courtesy still kept his knuckles rapping despite her request. After all, just because she claimed she didn’t mind him barging in whenever didn’t mean he would. Maker, what if he walked in on her dressing one day?

As much as a part of him might want to see that, he would never go out of his way to make that a reality. He might not be the best man in the world—he wasn’t even anywhere near the running—but he would never be so crass or vulgar.

When she bid him entry, his hand was already waiting on the door knob, however, and part of him wondered if he wouldn’t simply get flustered by the idea of seeing her should she ever tell him she needed a moment.

Even now, he was embarrassed. Maker help him, but she was his superior. He should not have been having such thoughts about her, yet more and more his dreams wandered to her, so sitting with her in the gardens, to whispering with one another at dinner, to pulling her down with him into his bed.

He always felt especially embarrassed after those dreams, particularly when he woke up reaching for her.

It was a foolish crush, and one he had no right or reason to pursue. After all, he’d failed to keep her safe on more than one occasion, and anyway, a personal relationship would put a strain on their professional relationship.

He liked that they could laugh and talk now. He liked that she didn’t always shy away from him, that sometimes she came up and took his hand.

Her touch made his heart stutter.

And that was completely unprofessional.

Trying to clear his mind, he was already forcing himself to focus on the issues he’d come to speak with her about as he entered the room. However, as his gaze quickly surveyed the room for the Inquisitor, all his attempts at professionalism evaporated.

Finley was standing in front of a mirror in a long dress. The fabric was dark and hung on her so perfectly…with the overcoat she always wore and her clothes generally a bit patched and awkward, he’d never really had a chance to see her figure before now, and his mind couldn’t quite move past the way the fabric fit her so…well.

She didn’t have wide hips or a large bust, but her curves were still there, subtle and sweet and calling.

Maker, but if he could run his hands along those curves, he’d die a happy man…

Her hair was down too, falling down her back, free and wild. The orange of it was such a beautiful clash with the color of the dress, somehow making her look all the more alluring. A recent dream of tangling his fingers in her hair came to mind and for a moment he was lost to the temptation.

Just as his feet started to move him toward her without a conscious thought on his part, she turned toward him and whatever momentum had begun to build died away.

Finley was positively irate.

His ears burned as he realized she must have caught him staring.

His mind scrambled for something he could say, and excuse he could make that might excuse his lingering gaze—which even now didn’t want to pay attention to her anger, instead constantly drawn down with the way her skirt swished around her legs and the languid way she moved altogether.

Even as he struggled internally, she stormed up to him, each step drawing her closer and making his heart skip a beat, despite how clear it was that this was not going to go along the lines of any of his fantasies.

“Feel this.”

Before he quite knew what was happening, Finley had caught his free hand and set it against her waist. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

Finley stared up at him a moment before turning abruptly to look back the way she’d come, still holding Cullen’s hand to her waist. “Do you see him? He is mortified. I am not wearing this.”

For the first time, Cullen became acutely aware that the two of them were not alone in the room. Slowly, his gaze left Finley to see Dorian lounging back in a chair, with two seamstresses standing near the mirror.

Instantly he jerked his hand away from her.

She barely noticed, already turning back to argue with something Dorian had said. The mage looked positively smug, and Cullen was glad he’d missed whatever it was.

“No. I’m _going_ to be stabbed. Look at this.” She plucked at the dress near her stomach, scrunching up the fabric, and pulling it tighter in other places. Cullen tried not to notice. “There is nothing here to protect me. Nothing.” Abruptly, she turned back to Cullen. “When you had your hand on me, did it feel like there was anything there?”

“I have to go.”

Cullen wasn’t sure if he actually said the words, or if he just mouthed them. He was vaguely aware that he’d passed both Lady Vivienne and Josephine on his way back down to the main hall, though the whole rush down the stairs had been little more than a blur.

Maker, help him but…

No.

No buts.

Just help him.

…-…

Finley stared at the half closed door, where Cullen had all but sprinted out not seconds earlier. Crossing her arms, she sunk into a chair next to Dorian, who was currently too busy cackling at the whole scene to notice. When he finally did manage to glance her way, he attempted a frown, though it didn’t hold.

“You’re not supposed to sit in that until they get all the hems done.”

“Why are you even here?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You think I’m too distraught to notice, but you never actually help during these fittings or the etiquette training,” Finley muttered, feeling oddly betrayed by the commander’s abrupt exit. She could have used someone in her corner to help her fend off these ridiculous outfits in favor of something more practical.

“My dear Inquisitor, _this_ is _exactly_ why I come to these.” When she simply gave him a puzzled look, a rather wide grin split his lips. “Listening to you rant about the impracticalities of having more than one spoon for a single meal or watching you throw a fit because you think the fabric is too thin for your attire is quite the show.” He paused, grin growing a little wider. “I couldn’t get better if I paid for it.”

“I do not throw fits.”

“Perhaps fit is not the right word, but you did just invite the commander of your armies to have a feel.”

“He’s in charge of security,” Finley objected. “It’s his job to make sure I’m safe. I’m not safe in this.” She made a sweeping motion toward the dress.

Dorian simply rolled his eyes as Josephine and Lady Vivienne entered into the room, both of them looking a little puzzled. He leaned toward her to whisper, “Methinks you just want that man’s hands on you.”

Finley stared at Dorian for a long moment before slouching against the side of her chair that was nearest him, ignoring as both Josephine and Lady Vivienne let out clucking protests on behalf of the poor, abused fabric. “If you can pick up on that, why can’t he?”

Rather than offer any insight, more laughter was all that met her question.


	14. Taking Notes

Finley frowned as she looked at the spell theory she’d been working on. It wasn’t right, but there were parts that she could use if she decided she wanted to…

Best to keep track of it.

Looking around her, her frown deepened. She sat in the middle of the room they’d given her in Skyhold, with what might look to the casual observer as dozens upon dozens of pieces of paper littering the floor around her in utter chaos.

Truth be told, she had a system. Things she needed to remember _not_ to do went to the left, clauses that might clash with others went toward the center, spells that almost worked in theory but might have unforeseen side effects went to the right and the ones she wanted to keep track of little snippets like this went…

Damn, where _was_ she putting these? Probably somewhere near the clauses, even if the construction wasn’t quite the same.

Even as she looked around for a nice space to set the paper down so that she could still see the important parts at a glance. She’d barely set it in place when a knock came at her door.

Instinctively, her hands reached out to gather the nearest papers and bolt, though Cullen’s voice called through the door. “Finley? May I come in?”

She hesitated, glancing around the room at her papers.

While she knew he wouldn’t understand any of it, he would probably recognize it for the spellcraft that it was. He had been a templar after all. Though…the more she had to deal with templars, the more she saw that their training regarding how magic worked and the like was extremely wanting. If she’d been a templar, she would have been embarrassed by it.

Good thing she’d disbanded the Order. Maybe they could implement something in its place where the templars were actually trained decently. There could be lessons on how to identify harmful spells versus the run of the mill kind that didn’t require people jumping up in arms and…

She realized that Cullen was likely still waiting on the other side of the door.

“Come in.”

She tried to act casual—it would be good to see how he react to this sort of thing, really, as whenever she was working on spells on her own, this tended to happen—to see how he would respond to her…habit.

“Busy day?” The joke came off as a little awkward and she looked up at him to see he’d stopped just shy of stepping on one of the furthest papers, his gaze slowly sweeping over what would be meaningless gibberish to him.

“I’m just working on a project,” Finley murmured. She rested her hands on her knees as she looked up at him. He hadn’t screamed witch, so that was good. Granted, she hadn’t thought he would, but still. It was always pleasant when people didn’t disappoint. “Did you need something?”

“You know, it might be easier to keep track of and see if you used a wall,” Cullen pointed. “You could get something to tack the pages up on and…” He trailed off, suddenly seeming a bit flushed. “Not that…you need to do…this any specific way. I just…”

He was so cute when he floundered.

Finley wasn’t quite sure why he’d be so worried about such a suggestion—it’s not like he was saying she should be doing it with supervision after all. With a lithe hop and a few quickly, carefully placed steps, she was out of her paper circle and standing beside him.

“Was there something I need to see?”

Cullen’s gaze had never left her papers, and the way he startled at her question gave her pause. It wasn’t like she’d snuck up on him, but he still seemed…

Her heart sunk a little.

Nervous.

Nervous because of the magic that wasn’t even being cast. But then…if she told him what the project was, he might be more concerned, so it wasn’t like she could sooth his nerves with an explanation.

“I, uh, right.” Cullen’s hands were empty, and he was suddenly looking at himself like he needed something desperately. With an awkward laugh, he motioned over his shoulder. “I must have, ah, left the report in my office.”

“Oh,” Finley murmured, trying not to feel like he was trying to find a reason to bolt. After all, he hadn’t come in with any papers, so if he’d wanted to show her one, he _had_ to have left it behind.

“I just thought it would be important to discuss,” Cullen continued, gaze wandering all through the room, inspecting everything but her. “And it’s not like we’ve really had a chance to talk since you got back and…”

At that, Finley tilted her head a little. His ears were red. “Did you come up here just to talk to me?”

“I, what? No, that would be…” Cullen looked so panicked, hands reaching for his pommel, gripping it as though it were his tether to reality. “I just forgot the report.”

She couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. “Well,” she trotted over to that…what was it even? A fainting couch? A…she didn’t know furniture well enough to name it, but she sat down and patted the space beside her. She could use a break from wracking her brain over how to fix this catastrophe, anyway. “Do you remember the important parts?”

“Do I…?” Cullen looked a little lost before realizing what she was asking. His ears were redder. Cheeks, too.

For a grown man in charge of an army, he was surprisingly cute.

As soon as she thought it, she felt herself blushing as well. Suddenly her papers were immensely interesting. Perhaps if she studied them upside down, she might have an ‘aha’ moment.

“It’s…I should go.” Cullen started back toward the door.

“I’d like it if you stayed.” The words were out before Finley could stop herself, and she felt like she might be turning as red as he was when she looked up at him to see he was at the door, looking like he very much didn’t know what to do. “If you…can’t remember the report, we could go over it in the morning. How have things been at Skyhold while I was gone?”

For the first time, he relaxed a little, turning and walking over to the couch, though he hesitated before sitting down. “Well, Inquisitor, it’s been…”


	15. That's Definitely Not Mine

**“T** hat’s definitely not mine.”

Finley frowned as she looked down at the piles of reports on his desk, trying to see what trinket or bauble might have been left there to confuse him so. “What?”

“Or…rather, just not right, I suppose. This report…it’s not…” Cullen held up one of the papers and looked it over, clearly suspicious. Finley liked the way the skin around his eyes crinkled a little when he narrowed them, and she couldn’t help but get distracted just taking him in before she abruptly realized that that pleasant drum in her ears was his voice as he explained what was going on.

She tried to tune in and fake that she’d been following along.

“…sent Ser Drisdyn to the south to check for resources. If anyone should have written from there, it was him, not…this.”

While Finley hadn’t caught most of what he’d been saying, the end was more than enough, and rather abruptly it was her turn to narrow her eyes. “South. South where?”

Cullen shrugged, gaze still firmly focused on the paper as though staring at it long enough would unveil the hand that had written it. “It’s some small lake not far from the mountains. There was talk about a quarry near it. We don’t have time to check every lead, but Ser Drisdyn volunteered to go with a few others.”

“Where exactly is this lake?” Finley tried again, sidling up beside Cullen to glance down at the report for any telling signs. The second she laid eyes on it, she didn’t need his answer. She knew exactly where his men had gone.

And that was right into an old acquaintance’s haunting grounds.

And _that_ was his handwriting. She was sure of it.

“It’s southern Ferelden,” Cullen answered, not realizing he needn’t bother.

“Were they all templars?” Finley asked as innocently as she could.

At that, Cullen lowered the paper, eyes narrowing. “Do you know something about this?”

“What?” Finley straightened up, doing her best to look indignant. “Why must it be that every time something odd happens within twenty miles of the Wilds, you ask if I was involved?”

Cullen rose from his seat slowly, holding one hand up, pointing at her. “That doesn’t happen, and I didn’t. I asked if you knew what was going on, not if you played a part in it.”

“Must I know every secret hidden beneath those grand canopies to the south?” Finley retorted, crossing her arms.

“No, but whenever you deflect like this it’s because you _do_ know something.”

At that, she sniffed delicately, letting her gaze wander away from him. “That’s not true.”

“It is.” Cullen crossed his arms as well. “Look, I won’t ask you for names—”

“Wouldn’t give them if I had them.”

“—but can you at least tell me if my men are safe?”

While Finley considered continuing on with her deflections, she couldn’t help but notice the earnest way he was looking at her. Uncrossing her arms, she reached up to fiddle with her braid, shrugging lightly as she did so. “If I tell you, you have to swear you will not send out a hunting party.”

Despite a flicker in his eyes that seemed like he might not agree to her terms, he finally nodded. “No hunting party. Are they safe?”

“It’s the Wilds, Commander,” Finley stated, a little annoyed. “I promise you no matter where they go, they are always within some predator’s territory.”

“A predator’s territory,” Cullen echoed, though he looked as though he was trying to find hidden meaning in her words.

Honestly, Finley had meant to tell him about Marcus and Randall, the two former Circle mages who lived near the quarry. Marcus had clearly written that report. She’d recognize the terrible way he drew his _M_ s anywhere.

However, she’d already chickened out and blamed it on wild animals, so she might as well go with it.

After all, there were wild beasts out there…that people would want to hunt. This was getting worse by the second.

And Cullen was waiting.

“There might be…things that live in the waters near that quarry that could potentially pose a threat.” Finley dropped her braid to pick at her sleeve. “But if they attack it’s because they were threatened…”

Or were hungry.

But there was no need to argue that point, was there?

Abruptly, she pointed at him. “This is why I told you not to send anyone into the Wilds! I even drew that line on your map!”

“It is hard to forget the line when I see it every time I go in the war room,” Cullen sighed, though he did seem to relax. “However, it would help a great deal if we could harvest our own resources instead of having to trade or pay for all of them.”

“Then I will find you some unclaimed resources outside of the Wilds,” Finley declared with a defiant shrug. “After I go find Ser Drisdyn.”

“Inquisitor,” Cullen called before she could make it to the door. He was holding the paper, looking down at it. “This report was writ…” She felt a pit in her stomach, even as he trailed off mid-word. Of course beasts couldn’t write. She should have thought of that. With a shake of his head, he looked up at her. “You know you don’t have to retrieve every missing group we have, yes?”

“I think it’s for the best if I go get this one.”

Cullen hesitated a moment before nodding. “And I will try to remember not to send anyone that way.”


	16. Comfort

**H** er Wilds held a comfort that could not be replaced. It was where she had grown up and where she had learned that so often, the creatures accused of being monsters were anything but. Perhaps it was because so many had looked at her with such fear that she’d so readily learned that lesson, and perhaps that was why the other denizens of the Wilds had so readily accepted her.

While, yes, there were templars to flee from time to time, every other aspect of the Wilds had been wonderful.

Donovan always called her lonely, but she wasn’t. There were entire clutches of wyvern, long since spread out in the Wilds, who had known her since they were little. They would see her and suddenly rather than stalking an intruder, they would be ready to play—sometimes knocking over small trees in the process.

There were other animals she’d be friended, some predators, some prey. She would wander through their territory, and they would wander with her, keeping pace, listening to her rambling tales.

They couldn’t understand her, not truly, but the way their heads would cock at the tone of her voice, and…they knew the word templar. There was one wyvern who, whenever she said the word, would let out an angry growl and then look at her expectantly, as though making sure it had interpreted her sounds correctly.

She always nodded, brow furrowing, and patted it on the head.

It was a little comical that such a large lizard would be so vocal about mage hunters, she loved it.

That was not to say that she could control them, by any means. On the rare occasion that she was traveling with someone else, she normally saw her beast friends peering out through the trees or underbrush, sniff the air and then wander off.

Once, she’d had to convince one not to eat Marcus.

She wasn’t really sure why. He was an ass, after all, but even as she’d watched the wyvern corner him, she’d felt a trill of guilt run through her. It had taken some cajoling, but she’d managed to save him, with minimal teeth marks on his arm.

That was before she’d decided to play healer to show how docile she was, and both she and her wyvern had simply left Marcus bleeding, with her calling over her shoulder that he should be nicer to other creatures, and he wouldn’t get hurt so much.

She’d heard him swearing behind her as they’d left, and felt his own magic curling around him to stave off any chance of infection.

She was friends with giant spiders, too, to an extent. There were a few who knew her from the Blight—she’d saved their hatchery, and she’d been the first thing they’d seen when they hatched, making a few of them think of her as somewhat of a mother.

Again, they were their own creatures, but they would get excited when she passed through. Sometimes, they defended her from younger spiders who mistook her for a meal. Then, again, she would have a partner to wander the woods with for a little while.

There was one, she called him Ser Barnebus, who had actually webbed her when she tried to leave his territory. She’d woken up in a cave, with the spider crawling all around the room and making distressed noises because it thought it had killed her.

When she’d sat up—a task somewhat difficult because of all the webbing—he’d tackled her and she’d banged her head on the floor.

After that, he’d been more careful with her.

And then of course there were the song birds. She liked all birds, really, but song birds held a special place in her heart. The ones who knew her would chirp when they found her passing by, flitting around her head, coming down to land on lower branches to twitter at her and tell her all the things she’d missed during her wanderings.

They were the first friends she’d made out there. There had been a bad storm, and she’d found one of the poor things injured and hiding in the dirt and brush. Its terrified chirps had brought her back to when she was a little girl, and she had realized that if she could heal a templar, she could surely mend a bird.

She had and it had stayed with her for over a year, always flitting through the tree branches overhead, or even perching on her head or shoulder.

Finley had been completely in love, and that was one of the main reasons she’d pursued healing magics at all—aside from being able to heal herself, of course. One couldn’t outrun templars on a broken leg or while bleeding profusely, after all.

However, before the Conclave most of her efforts had been in mending and manipulating trees. She picked up a few other spells here and there, wards and counters to curses and the like, but for the most part, she hadn’t healed people.

Donovan said she was crazy, but she thought didn’t worry about it. For the creatures she hadn’t met before, she could usually buy tolerance if not affection with a few healing spells, or presenting them with a decent meal.  

Truly, she was very rarely lonely in the Wilds, and more often than not, when she was it was because she’d spent a few months around people and hadn’t been able to see her non-bipedal friends as much.

She’d never been the best at working with other people—something she’d quickly had to overcome after being appointed the Herald of Andraste.

While she liked the people she worked with and come to know over the last months, she still missed her home. She missed curling up under an outcrop with foxes, or basking in the afternoon sun with wyvern. She missed singing with song birds.

She missed her Wilds.

And as much as she cared for Cullen, and adored Sera’s pranks and Bull’s jokes and…

She cared for these people, but…

But she couldn’t have them _and_ the Wilds.

Some nights, she’d wake up beside Cullen, feeling so lost. Her feet would itch to just go, to leave everything behind and search to make sure that her home was safe, that the rifts near and in the Wilds hadn’t brought harm to the creatures she loved so.

Once, she’d gotten up to go, the restless concern in her too great.

Then Cullen had murmured her name, his brow pinching together in pain, and she’d realized that she couldn’t go back.

Couldn’t leave him.

That had been a scary night, where she’d sat on the edge of his bed, watching him sleep, and wondering when he’d become so important to her. That he could whisper a name that wasn’t even really hers, and she would forget everything to make sure that he was okay was…

She wasn’t sure what it was. Donovan would laugh if she called it love.

Her Wilds held a comfort for her that couldn’t be replaced, and always would.

But here in Skyhold, she’d found another comfort, and some nights she stayed up, wrestling with the notion that someday she would have to choose.


	17. Kind Gestures

**C** ullen knew the children were there well before he saw them, mostly because of the way Finley’s body language changed. She’d been relaxing in a chair beside him, leaning so that their shoulders touched as he went over a report with her, when rather abruptly she was rigid as a board, her breath escaping her in a slow, soft hiss.

And then she was leaning back in her seat a little too casually, one arm slung across the back of it so that she was angled so that most of her was nearer to Cullen than anywhere else in the room.

While he’d thought it was templars the first few times this had happened, he’d always been baffled to look up and see that it was little ones entering the room or hall or…wherever, rather than men with swords.

Not that he felt she should be terrified of templars when they worked for her, but…it seemed a more reasonable fear than children.

“We did what you said!” One of the children, a little boy Cullen had seen around before though he couldn’t say where. He could feel magic curling in the child, though, so he guessed he’d likely seen him around the other mages.

There was magic in all of them, actually.

Finley appraised them with an expression that was hard to read—Cullen guessed she was going for casual, though it was far too stiff to be that—and then motioned toward them, the movement a bit too abrupt and snappy. “Where is it you are supposed to be right now?”

“I told you she’d be mad,” one of the little ones in the back whispered.

At that, Finley flinched a little. Taking in a breath, she tried again. “I am not mad. It is just that I know you are very likely supposed to be elsewhere, and I wonder what will happen when the people looking after you find you missing.” She hesitated before adding, “I don’t doubt they will be displeased with you being places you are not supposed to be.”

“Commander Rutherford said I could come here if it was important,” one of them piped up. “And this is really important.” Cullen’s gaze snapped toward the child, and he tried to remember when he would have said that. While it was true that if someone found something important—an assassination plot, stolen goods, etc.—that he would want them to come see him, regardless of who they were or how old, but he didn’t remember talking to this little mage.

“You will not be in trouble for being here?” Finley clarified.

A chorus of ‘no’s answered her, cheerful and sweet. Finley shifted around in her chair a little grumpily, and then motioned to them. “Well then, what is it I’ve said that you’ve done?”

Taking that as an invitation, one of the other children—Maker, but they were their own little herd, with at least seven of them crowding into the doorway leading to the rotunda from Cullen’s office—darted forward and presented what looked like a flower crown made of leaves. The reds and oranges and yellows were quite lovely, all things considered.

Shifting a little closer to Cullen as the child drew nearer, Finley eyed her. “You didn’t pick those off the trees, I hope? I have said—”

“If you pick them, they die,” that chorus of little voices responded.

Cullen was fairly certain that Finley stopped breathing for a moment. He leaned against his hand so that he could cover his mouth and keep from laughing, though quickly shifted back toward her when she looked back at him like he was abandoning her. A few of the children paused to eye him, but their attention quickly refocused on Finley when they decided he wasn’t interesting.

The young girl marched up to their dear Inquisitor and presented her with the crown. “We made it for you.”

There was a tentative silence before Finley slowly reached out and took the crown from the child, holding it up with care, her gaze constantly flickering from the crown to its presenter. After what could have been an eternity, Finley held it back out to the child. “It is very well made.”

“You gotta wear it,” one of the other children demanded from near the door.

Finley’s fingers drummed very lightly against the base of the leaf crown. As Cullen inspected it more carefully, he realized that the stems were long enough to have been woven together the way he’d expected. There were faint traces of magic on the leaves.

“I was lectured just this morning by Ambassador Montilyet. She is not fond of me having leaves in my hair,” Finley murmured. However, she had taken to inspecting the leaves with more care. “This is very lovely, though.” Again she held it out to the child.

The one who had first spoken rocked on his feet, looking desperately like he was trying not to fidget. “But you said, ‘The only crown I’ll ever wear, is a circlet of leaves strewn through my hair.”

It took a great deal of self-control for Cullen to keep from asking if she’d really rhymed what she’d told them.

“’Twas a joke,” Finley protested, again holding the crown out to the nearest child. “The only people who wear leaf crowns are witches and fairies.”

The pride that had been on their faces earlier was falling away by inches. The one who’d given her the crown shifted her feet, distraught. “But that’s what you said. We heard you.”

Even as Cullen tried to think of a gentle persuasion to get either Finley to try on the crown to appease the children, or get the children to understand that they were very busy, Finley’s gaze wandered the lot of them, seeming to debate something quite visibly in her head.

Finally, Finley held herself a little taller for a second before sighing and setting the gift onto her head. A cheer swept through the children, a few of the smaller ones jumping up and down. The closest one hugged her before spinning away, oblivious to the way Finley went rigid again as she was touched.

Finley seemed stunned a moment before finally muttering, loud enough for them to hear, “Thank you for the leaf crown.”

Even as they turned to go, they were all looking back again and shouting ‘you’re welcome’s before hurrying back across the way to the library where they were no doubt supposed to be studying.

As soon as the last of them had closed the door, Finley reached up to take off the crown. Cullen eyed her as she debated what to do with the crown before carefully setting it away from her, on the corner of his desk. “I think you made their day.”

“Yes, well,” Finley started, shifting in her seat so that she wasn’t so close to him. “’Twas a harmless request. No reason to break their hearts. There will be plenty of things to do that later.” 

At that, Cullen carefully rose from his chair and reached out to retrieve the crown before settling back in his seat, inspecting it. It really was magic that had gotten the leaves to stick together. Such a simple use for the arcane… “Such cynicism for a leaf crown.”

With a scowl, Finley picked up one of the reports on Cullen’s desk and busied herself with reading it by herself. After a few minutes, she let her gaze wander back to meet his. “You know damned well how horrible this world can be. Might as well let them be happy for a little while.”

“You know that’s probably why you’re their hero, and why they seek you out,” Cullen offered, watching her as she went back to the report, curling her legs up in her seat so that she was so compact. He didn’t think it was out of fear or anything now, but she had been so nervous when the children had shown up…

“It’s not my fault they made poor life choices.”

“I think they’re pretty smart to have you as a hero, myself.” Cullen set the crown down on the desk again and leaned over to read over her shoulder. Almost instantly she slouched against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He thought about telling her that she was his hero, too, but didn’t know how well that would be received. Instead, he slipped an arm around her as best he could with the damned chairs making it hard to be too close—part of why they used two when they were working in the office—and rested his head against hers. “So then, as I was saying. We’re going to need to reroute supplies from….”

She seemed to calm down, just listening to his voice, and he couldn’t bring himself to mind when he had to repeat himself a few times.

A week later, he came back from inspections in the valley to find two leaf crowns sitting on his desk, with a small note.

_Sorry we forgot you last time._


	18. A Headache

**“W** hen, exactly, were you planning on telling me about all of this?” Cullen demanded as he strode into Finley’s room.

She’d just gotten back from the road and had been rather looking forward to talking to Cullen. There had been an incident where they’d gotten to claim a trebuchet, and she was quite certain that he would fall into one of his boyish lectures on how amazing trebuchets were and how great modern siege technology really was as soon as she brought it up.

That was, she’d been looking forward to talking to him until this. She’d barely gotten out of her bath when he’d come storming in, as she’d been debating between braiding her hair or just letting it dry free. As it was, her hair was falling wildly around her, without even the usual attempts to keep it reined in.

Cullen had stopped in the middle of the room, arms crossed, a report clutched in one hand and partially crinkled, and the way his eyes were squinting, she could tell he had one of his headaches. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, though, so despite any aches, this wasn’t one of his worst days.

“Well?” he demanded again, sounding tired and aggravated and a little betrayed all in one.

Considering how many things she was keeping from him—well, really it was everyone more than him specifically—she chose to let him continue rather than filling in the blanks with the wrong details. Or, she’d intended to. However, he wasn’t budging, instead fixing her with a firm, upset glare, his hand crinkling that paper a little more.

If she could only read it…he’d sense a spell though, and in his current mood, it might make him paranoid if she was subtle and he didn’t realize she was the caster right away.

Stepping over to him slowly, still trying to figure out how to get a look at that paper, she took in a slow breath and went for a broader statement to try to get him talking again. “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

It was true enough, after all. She cared about him, and didn’t like to see him upset.

“She’s _my_ sister, and my problems are _mine_ to tell,” Cullen snapped. As he spoke, his voice shifted from anger to despair. “I don’t want her knowing about…” One of his hands went to his head, fingers bracing against his forehead. Now that his stance had shifted, she could see that he _was_ suffering tremors and that made her forget any attempts to avoid accusations.

Hurrying over to him, she lightly took his arm, and led him over to the bed. It was the closest furniture in the room, and though he seemed agitated, he let her lead him there, sinking down onto the blankets.

She started to slip down next to him, but when he looked up at her, she stopped. The look on his face held such…betrayal. Like she’d broken his confidence.

“How could you?”

“Cullen, I’m not sure what you think I did.”

At that, he started to respond and then looked around, a little disoriented, for the paper he’d had with him. With a meek movement, he pointed toward it.

Finley stooped down to pick up the letter—it had fallen from his hands when he sat down—and skimmed it openly, perplexed. Then, finally, she reached the line that had upset him.

_You know, it’s fine if you don’t want to tell me about it. I have Finley now, and she tells me everything._

That was laughable, really. To think that she would tell _any_ one person everything would be…

“I didn’t want them to know how low I’ve fallen,” Cullen whispered, head in his hands.

“Cullen,” Finley knelt in front of him, reaching out to lightly clasp his arms. “I don’t think most people consider being a general to be a low.”

“You know what I mean,” he snapped back, though his anger had wilted, and he was left with simple misery. “I can’t even hold a quill steady.”

“That will pass. It always does,” Finley offered. When he didn’t seem convinced, she shifted a little closer to him, peering up into his face to catch his gaze. “Mia started writing me a few months ago because she’s always so worried about you, and, according to her, even when you do write it’s so vague that she feels like she doesn’t know if she should be worried or not.”

Cullen stared at her, expression pained, guilty.

Squeezing his arms, she continued, “So I write to her and tell her about how you smooth your hair back and how I mess it up, and you grumble. I tell her about how you’re teaching me chess and how part of you wants to stoop to Sera’s level and go into an all-out prank war, but how you’re too responsible to do that.” She paused and then added, “I tell her how fast you run when you lose at Wicked Grace.”

That brought out a groan, though it seemed more relieved than upset. “You don’t…talk about this…?”

“Not once,” Finley reassured him, stretching up to kiss his nose. “Like you said, that’s for you to tell, not me.” She started to settle back down, but one of his hands slipped into her hair, keeping her closer. “You should know by now that I don’t tell secrets that aren’t mine.”  

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. “I should.”

There was more guilt in his voice.

Shifting up, she moved so that she was sitting beside him and patted her leg, letting him slump over, his head resting in her lap. She began to play with his hair, and conjured a little bit of magic to help numb the pain.

He reached up to clasp her free hand and brought it down to his chest. “When _were_ you going to tell me you’re writing to my sister? After she told you all of the stories of me being an idiot boy?”

“I thought the barn incident was quite endearing, really,” Finley replied. That elicited another groan, one of his hands reaching up to cover his face. “I wasn’t intentionally keeping it from you…it just never came up.”

Cullen splayed his fingers and peered up at her through them. They stayed that way for a moment before he let his hand fall back down to rest on his chest, beside hers. “I believe I owe you an apology.”

“Ssshhh,” Finley murmured, still playing with his hair. “I’d have been mad, too, if I thought you were telling all of my secrets to someone.”

“I’d have to know your secrets to tell them,” he mumbled in response.

He had her there.

Thinking it over carefully, she finally leaned forward a little, peering down at him. “Did I ever tell you about the time I was turned into a tree frog?”

His gaze snapped open. “What?”

“It’s a fun story, really,” Finley offered. “I was a very pretty tree frog.”  


	19. Little Terrors

**C** ullen woke up to noise. It took him a moment to blink past the sleep still tugging at him and realize that Finley was pacing back and forth at the foot of his bed, clinging to herself as though she feared that she might fall apart otherwise. The only thing she was wearing was one of his shirts and seeing her slender legs as she paced did nothing to focus his attention.

Even as a small part of his consciousness registered that she was distraught and that the noise was her talking and that he should be paying closer attention to that, she stopped pacing. “I just…” She shrugged her shoulders up and then down. “I just don’t want to hurt the baby.”

As she spoke, she happened to look his way and stilled when she saw that he was watching her, like she’d somehow expected him to not be, after all that ruckus. Before he could think of what to say to that, she abruptly vaulted onto the bed beside him, making the mattress shake rather unpleasantly.

Either oblivious to any discomfort she might cause him or just not caring, she stared at him intently. “You’re…awake.”

Somehow, that seemed to distress her more than…what was bothering her?

A…baby?

Mind coming together a little better, Cullen reached out and ran his fingers down her arm in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. When it seemed to work, he narrowed his eyes slightly. “What baby?”

At that, Finley’s eyes widened further than he thought he’d ever seen them go as she donned that all too familiar trapped animal look.

Cullen hated that look.

And that shook the last remnants of sleep from him. “Finley.”

“I should not have woken you.” She picked at her hair, and Cullen reached out and caught her hands, clasping his around hers and drawing them to his lips so that he could kiss them.

There was a momentary silence before Cullen let his gaze wander up to meet hers. Shifting a little uncomfortably, he tried not to look down at her stomach. “Are you pregnant?”

“What? Why would I be—” Finley jerked her hands away, splaying her fingers across her stomach. “What’s wrong with you? Where would you even come up with that?”

“You’re the one talking about children at odd hours in the night,” Cullen protested, feeling even more lost than when they’d started this conversation. As he struggled to defend himself, he added, “And we’re not exactly…careful.”

At that moment, it really hit him. They weren’t careful. At all.

Maker, it was a miracle that she _wasn’t_ pregnant. Even as that registered, a small, quiet part of him asked if that would be so bad. That part quickly lost out to reminders that Corypheus was still out there, that there were rifts to be closed, demons to be fought.

Maybe after everything was over…would he want a responsibility like that? A new life in _his_ hands?

He looked up at her, trying to quell the panic at the mere idea before it could settle in. “What baby are you worried about hurting?”

“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep,” Finley insisted, lightly pushing on his shoulders as though he might simply fall back into the covers and forget everything.

That would not be happening any time soon. “Finley…” he murmured her name, reaching out and pulling her closer to him. “Is someone we know having a baby?”

When she didn’t answer, he narrowed his eyes, letting his gaze drop without really focusing on anything, his mind a whir. That she would be talking to him about it as though he already knew—he assumed that had been what she was doing, though why she’d be ranting to him when he was _asleep_ was beyond his comprehension at this hour—meant that it was someone they both knew.

If she expected that he would be in this person’s confidence…

“Is Cassandra pregnant?”

“What?” That damned look was back. “Where are you coming up with this? That’s…that would be ridiculous. Cassandra has too much to do and…” She trailed off, obviously not sure where she was going with that line of thought.

Cullen watched her closely, trying to figure out where this had come from and failing miserably. Quite abruptly, Finley leaned forward and kissed him. That blanked his mind for a few seconds as her hands wandered across his bare chest, the touch of her fingers sending shivers through him.

He was almost caught up in the moment, though as she moved to trail kisses down his neck, his mind snapped back to the oddity of the evening. “Are you trying to make me forget what happened by seducing me?”

Finley stilled, lips still pressed against his throat.

A muffled ‘no’ answered him finally before she rocked back a little, appraising him with a disapproving light in her eyes. “This is why you have so few nice things. You cannot let things go.”

“You’re not going to tell me.”

She flopped back down in bed.

“If I stop asking who is having the baby, will you explain why it had you so worked up that you were pacing around in the middle of the night?”

“Children are small and easily breakable,” Finley mumbled into her pillow—no, that was his. She’d stolen his pillow. “I don’t want to break them.”

Letting himself slump down on top of her so that his head was on her shoulder, he curled his arm around her, tugging her a little closer. “I would think you’d be good with children, being a healer and as…aware of everything going on around you, as you are.”

Finley scoffed. “Hardly. I avoid them as much as I can.” She shifted a little, snuggling closer.  “They are too little and frail…”

“But you don’t think you can just avoid this one?” When all she did was grumble incoherently into his pillow, he brushed her tangled hair back and kissed the nape of her neck. “I think you’ll be fine. After all, with all that you do, you won’t really have time to spend with children, anyway, so avoiding one won’t be too hard.”

“What if I heal their mother wrong and mess them up somehow?” Her voice was faint, distant. Like she was remembering something.

It made him want to ask so many questions, but he’d learned by now to take things slowly. Instead, he squeezed her a little. “You won’t.”

“But—”

“You.” He kissed her ear. “Won’t.”

“I’m blaming you if something goes wrong.”

“I’ll take the blame, then,” he offered. When he felt some of the tension leave her shoulders, he sat up a little straighter. “So then…are you giving me my pillow back or am I using you for the night?”  


	20. Marked

Finley sat quietly on the bed, watching as Cullen paced back and forth in front of her. Every now and then he’d stop and start to say something, hands moving to help make his point, only to frown, shake his head, and resume his pacing.

Somehow, he’d managed to stay calm while the healers were present, but now that it was just the two of them, it was as though he couldn’t be still for a second. She knew the feeling well, and waited patiently for him to expend his energy. It always helped her to walk it off, after all.

His hair was wild and unkempt, rogue curls springing from his head in all directions, but his eyes were so…focused. Furious.

Then there was a flash of helplessness right before he started walking again.

After a moment, he finally stopped, standing near one of the balconies and staring out at the clouded sky. He stood there for a few moments, shoulders tense, arms crossed.

Finley wondered if perhaps she should say something, but she wasn’t sure what she could say that would actually help.

“How long?”

“Cullen…” Finley started, feeling a sinking pit in her stomach.

“Maker, the way you’ve been excusing yourself lately…was it because of…?” His voice broke, and he couldn’t finish his question. Instead, he turned, his eyes asking what he couldn’t, all but pleading with her to tell him he was wrong.

But she couldn’t.

Looking down at their bedsheets, Finley nodded once, finding that her own voice didn’t want to answer her. As she picked at the fabric, idly thinking about how well-made it was, Cullen strode back over to her. Half tripping, half sliding onto the bed in front of her, he reached out and caught her left hand, pulling it toward him, palm up, so that he could see the mark.

He reached out to trace that awful line with his thumb, but hesitated, as though merely touching the damned thing would make it act up again.

Sometimes it seemed like that _was_ all it took.

Part of her wanted to scream. She wanted to yell that she’d _told_ them from the beginning that the mark was something vile, that she didn’t want it anywhere near her, but they’d met her pleas over and over with platitudes and assurances that it wasn’t as evil as she thought it was.

It didn’t take blood to use, after all.

Like that alone made it good. She knew better than anyone just how much damage could be done to someone without spilling a single drop of blood.

If they’d taken her seriously when she’d first told them, then maybe they could have researched it better, maybe they could have found some way to get rid of it before time ran out.

But they hadn’t.

Why look too closely at a Maker given blessing?

Aside from the fact that even the slightest glance at the damned thing all but proved it _wasn’t_ a blessing of any sort.

And now, the longer she went between closing rifts, the worse it got.

It had been foolish to think she could have hidden how it was changing from everyone. After all, she slept with Cullen, and as vigilant as she tried to be, as much as she tried to slip out of sight whenever she felt that awful pressure building up right before a snap, she’d known eventually she wouldn’t be able to react fast enough.

This was the first time it had happened while she was asleep, though.

Truly, it had been foolish to hide it. And yet, it had been a way to deny it. If she was the only one who knew, then sometimes she could almost convince herself that it wasn’t real, a trick of the mind or a nightmare.

Now, though…

Reaching out her free hand, she brushed her fingers against Cullen’s jaw and up into his hair. “It’ll be alright.”

At that, he choked back a sob. “I…should be the one telling you that.”

Letting go of her hand, he pulled her to him, holding her tightly, his fingers digging slightly into her skin as though if he loosened his grip she might slip away into nothing. She leaned her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent, heartbreaking at the tremble that shook through him.

“Anything I can do, I’ll do it,” he whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to her neck.

With a faint smile, she put her arms around him. “I know you will.”


	21. One Last Journey

**“Y** ou shouldn’t go,” Cullen murmured, sitting on the far side of the bed, back to Finley with his shirt in his hands, though he seemed to have forgotten that they’d just decided they need to get up. There was always so much to do, and today wasn’t a day for sleeping in.

Finley was already tugging her undershirt over her head when he spoke, and so she tugged it down into place and pulled her hair out, letting it cascade down her back in wild tangles. A sharp ache shot through her left arm as she leaned back on the bed to move over to him, and she was glad that he couldn’t see her flinch.

Rather than attempt to crawl across the bed again, she walked around it and sat beside him leaning against him and resting her head on his shoulder. “That’s hardly fair, and you know it.”

“They have the rifts under control,” Cullen protested, turning carefully his hands moving to support her as he pulled away from her. When she simply sat up straighter, they found their way to her hands. His right hand closed around her left wrist, and slid down her arm slowly until she sucked in a quiet breath. He moved his hand back up her arm. “Dorian said that he may have found something. It’s worth it to wait—”

“For what?” She couldn’t help herself. She’d known he would make this hard, just by being there, but she’d thought…he’d always prided himself in keeping his composure, in putting his job first. She hadn’t expected this. “Cullen…”

_There’s not much time left._

They were words she couldn’t say. “This will give them more time to figure out the mark. So when I get back, they can fix it for me.”

“Look at what it’s doing to you, now!” Cullen protested. “You’re not as good at hiding things as you used to be.” Cullen looked like he might say those very words she’d thought earlier, but they caught in his throat, an unspoken truth between them.

Reaching out with her good hand, she ran her fingers down his cheek to his jaw, loving the feel of his unshaven face beneath her fingertips.

She would miss him.

“Seventeen rifts,” she offered instead. “We’ve planned the route out. I doubt it’ll take more than two months. Three if something goes awry.”

Seventeen rifts, and all reported rifts would be closed. Finally, the damage done from the hole in the sky would be repaired…

Well, not really.

The clearings and forests where those rifts had formed would take decades to return to how they had been before the Breach, they would be weaker spots in the veil, prone to magical anomalies and the like.

It was a little disappointing, though she tried not to think of it that way, but she’d always wanted to leave the world a better place. She’d wanted to find a cure for the Blight, to give the Wilds back the life that had been lost.

But the least she could do was try to leave the world in roughly the same condition that she’d come into it.

It wasn’t ideal, but things would be alright. Others would pick up where she left off. This was important, too, and despite efforts, she was still the only one who could close the rifts.

For a moment, Cullen had looked ready to argue. She’d even thought he might try to lock her in her room, the way his desperation played in his eyes.

Instead, he closed them and leaned forward, forehead to forehead. When he was the commander again, he pulled away, standing up and jerking shirt on quickly. “We need to hurry if you’re to leave on time.”

They dressed quickly, his hands moving to help her with belts and buckles and her braid without her needing to ask. When everything was in place, he pulled her into a tight hug, one that she readily leaned into, burying her face against him. “Come back to me.”

With that, he let go of her and headed to the door, not waiting for the answer she couldn’t give.


	22. Dreams

**“W** e will need a tree for the birds to rest and nest in.”

Cullen had almost drifted to sleep when he heard the declaration, and he slowly pushed himself upright, confused. Finley was staring at him expectantly. When he didn’t respond, his mind still far too foggy to comprehend what was going on, her brow pinched together.  “Am I supposed to keep going?”

Letting out a groan, Cullen forced himself to focus on her more, though he wished mostly that she hadn’t moved so far from him under the blankets. Without thinking, he drew her closer, smiling at how easily she came to him and settled back against his side.

“There should be a chicken coup, too.”

That made him stop before he could ask what was going on.

Earlier, he’d been discussing reports and the like with Finley and Cassandra when Ser Yorric had come in. Despite being a templar, Finley seemed  to have accepted the man as a friend, and she no longer became to skittish when he was present.

Well, most of the time.

Today, Ser Yorric had asked them what their plans were for after all of this was over.

Seeing how spectacularly awful Finley had responded to his own, similar query a few weeks prior, Cullen had been ready to change the subject when Finley had beat him to speaking, asking, “For what purpose do you wish to know my future whereabouts?”

Cullen had run his hand down her back, reminding her that she wasn’t alone as Ser Yorric had arched his eyebrows and then shrugged. “I don’t know, just wondering. Cas and I were talking about getting a dog.”

“You were talking about that,” Cassandra had clarified, not looked up from the report she was reading.

“Well, you did say you wanted—”

Cassandra’s cheeks had flushed as she darted over to her lover and clapped a hand over his mouth. Even as Finley and Cullen had watched, she’d dragged Yorric out into the hall to talk to him.

“What’s that about then?” Finley had asked, looking up at him with idle curiosity.

Cullen wasn’t completely sure, but he shrugged a shoulder as he slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “People like to dream about what the future will hold.”

“Like you can ever be sure,” Finley muttered, gaze dropping back down to the report they’d been going over.

It was surprising how much that had stung, but he’d told himself to drop it, even as the words had come tumbling off his lips, “Some people think it’s fun. To imagine what things might be like. It’s goals to try for, things to want, a promise of a life together.”

Finley had lowered her papers and looked up at him, mildly perplexed, when Cassandra had come back into the room, flustered, but pointedly avoiding whatever it was that had happened in the hall as they went back to work.

“I asked Varric about it,” Finley said, drawing him from his thoughts of earlier, “and we’re supposed to do this together. It’s your turn.”

Cullen squeezed her closer briefly, pressing a kiss into her hair. “I want a dog.”

“You’ll have to train him not to eat the chickens.”

“I will,” Cullen retorted, feigning hurt that she would think he wouldn’t. “I grew up on a farm, you know. I know something about tending to animals.”

Finley propped herself up so that she could look at him, nodding slowly as she accepted his answer. “So a tree, a chicken coup, and a dog. It’s still your turn.”

With a smile, he rolled them over, moving so that he could look her in the eyes more easily, with both of them on their sides. “A huge yard.”

As she nodded in agreement, he leaned forward and kissed her, long and slow. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

A quiet smile graced her lips as she chased his kiss arms slipping around him and tugging him closer. “I love you, too.”


	23. Stormy Night

“Finley, I wanted to check with you and—”

Cullen’s voice trailed off, his boots scuffing to a stop. No doubt he’d noticed her desk was empty, half of her paperwork still untouched.

It was another moment before she heard his steps resume and felt that familiar, faint prickle in the back of her mind that told her he could see her. It had been getting fainter over the past year, and she had an idea as to why, but didn’t want to bring it up, lest there be disappointment.

She felt the tentative touch of his fingers on her arm. He was always so careful with her, like she might break if he grabbed her too quickly. She loved that.

Reaching up, she pulled his arm around her, and he moved willingly, his chest pressing gently against her back as he leaned his head against hers, watching the swirls of white dancing beyond the balcony.

The storm had hit almost an hour prior, and Finley was happy to be indoors for this one, as it reminded her somewhat of the storm after Haven.

Even as she idly wondered if she’d always compare storms to that now, considering she’d been through plenty of ones just as bad while she was in the Wilds, Cullen pressed a chaste kiss to the top of her ear. “You’re cold.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she admitted, though the chill did bite into her a bit now that he was here, making her snuggle back against him, pulling his arms tighter around her. He nuzzled her cheek and she tilted her head back to rest against his shoulder, closing her eyes and smiling as he trailed kisses down her neck.

When he reached her shirt collar, he brushed his cheek against her skin, letting out a soft sigh. “You’ll freeze if I go any further.”

“You underestimate me, commander,” Finley teased, turning so that she could kiss him as he straightened up. One of his hands came up, fingers lightly brushing across her neck as he kept her chin tipped up so that he could kiss her. When they parted for breath, she gave him a small smile. “I walked through worse than this, if you remember.”

“I’d rather not.” He frowned, taking a step back and carefully tugging her with him. “Come inside. We can pull up the fainting couch and watched the snow where it’s warm.”

With a sigh, she slipped out of his arms, though she held onto one of his hands as she wandered back into her room. “You just want me to listen to whatever you’ve brought up to add to my pile of paperwork.”

With a half grin, Cullen held up both his hands, pulling her closer as he did so. “I’m hurt you think that.”

Eyeing him, Finley tilted her head, “What needed checking, then?”

“Nothing that can’t wait a few minutes…” Cullen murmured, pulling her flush to him and leaning his forehead against hers. “That is, unless you’d like to get business out of the way first.”

“I might be persuaded.”


	24. Always Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Andraste's Witch took an unexpected turn, chapters 1 and 4 are no longer canon for their relationship, but I'm leaving them up, just cuz.

Finley’s nails scraped gently along Cullen’s bare chest as she ran her hands up to his shoulders, pressing kisses along his stubbled jaw as she settled into his lap. His calloused hands ran across her skin, pulling her closer.  

It had been far too long since she’d had any sort of companionship, and every brush of his thumb, every nip of his mouth against her skin, every rough brush of stubble trilled through her in anticipation of what was to come.

One of his hands cupped the back of her neck as he recaptured her lips with his, molding his mouth against hers so perfectly again and again. Between quiet gasps for breath, she cupped his face in her hands, her finger tips buried the wild curls he always tried to smooth out.

Even as she rocked her body against his, loving the feel of skin against skin, he pulled away from her kisses. He coughed a little to clear his throat, his cheeks flushed from their activities. “I, uh, there’s something…” He trailed off as she sat back a little. He had trouble holding her gaze, his own instead dropping down to take in her figure, breath catching in his throat like he might forget how to breathe all together.

“Something…?” Finley prompted gently, leaning forward to brush his nose with hers. He tilted his head back up, pulling her closer again until their foreheads rested against one another’s.

“It’s…I’m a little out of practice.”

The words were half strangled at best.

Rocking back a little, Finley had to bite her lip to keep from smiling as she looked at him. The red in his cheeks had spread down his neck to his shoulders and even up to his ears. She’d never seen him so nervous before. Even their first kiss hadn’t been quite so awkward.  

“If you don’t want to…” He was getting redder.

“I’m rather enjoying myself.” Leaning forward, she nipped his lip before he could comment on that, and then trailed kisses up his nose, stopping when she’d planted a chaste kiss on his forehead. “If you would rather not, we don’t—”

“I do.” Abruptly, her world shifted, and she found herself on her back on his bed, with him on top of her. His lips traced the contours of her throat, down to her collarbone. “Maker help me, but I do. I just…” He rested his head against her shoulder so that she couldn’t see how embarrassed he was. “If I can’t…”

She lightly ran her finger tips over his skin, burying her hand in his hair and taking a moment to enjoy the feel of his weight on top of her. “Cullen…” She slipped one of her hands down to catch his chin and lifted it. He moved readily with her touch, shifting up to kiss her with little guidance. “I think we’ll be fine.”

As he kissed her again, his lips tugged up into a smile against hers, the earlier confidence in his actions returning somewhat. As his hands moved over her body, sending shivers through her, she couldn’t help but grin.

“And besides, I’m pretty sure there’s a spell for that.”

Despite the dry laugh that answered her, she could feel his smile widen against her skin as he kissed her again.  


	25. First Something or Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finley confesses her feelings for Cullen. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble no longer fits in with the main story, but I'm leaving it up.

“Commander.” She paused before adding, “Cullen.”

Finley stopped just inside of his office, looking around the room carefully as though she hadn’t been able to tell with one brief, sweeping glance that he was alone. He stood over by his desk, flipping through a small stack of reports and checking something, his brow furrowed with concentration.

“Finley,” he replied without looking up, voice reflecting the amount of attention he was dividing from his current task. “All is well, I hope?”

Quick steps took her around his desk so that she was standing beside him. A quick once over of the papers proved that they were beyond boring—important, no doubt, but boring, and seeing as they were currently in the way of her goals, a tad annoying, too.

She watched him shuffle the papers, frown deeper, and then check the list he’d been referring to, again.

She started to reach for her braid to play with when she remembered that Josephine had done her hair up in some intricate hairstyle, knowing full well Finley would never figure out how to get it down. Truly, the woman was an evil mastermind. Her nails scraped at the side of her neck before she went to tug on her sleeve, rocking from heel to toe and back.

“Will this take long?”

“I was looking through a report and found a discrepancy,” Cullen murmured, a faint air of worry in his voice. “I wouldn’t have even noticed it, but a few reports arrived late, and so I read the two around the same time and recognized the…” He trailed off, sticking his head forward a little as he squinted at another page. “This doesn’t make sense…”

“I could take it to Leliana for you,” Finley offered, stilling from her rocking as he finally looked up at her. Her heart fluttered a little.

“I can take it to her myself,” Cullen replied, looking back at the papers. “I just want to make sure I gather everything first.”

Finley’s heart sunk. She’d just spent the last three hours building herself up to this, and now paperwork was going to be her undoing. And it wasn’t even _her_ paperwork. That, somehow, made the grievance worse.

Ever since arriving at Skyhold, she’d realized that she suffered a growing fondness for her dear commander. She'd struggled with the practicalities of it, with the moralities of it, and whether or not he might feel the same.

Some days, she was fairly certain he fancied her. She’d notice him watching her only for him to blush and look away when he realized he’d been caught. To be fair, she did the same to him. It was just so entrancing the way the light shone down on that golden hair. Sunlight, candlelight, whatever it was, he looked good in it.

And she liked when he wasn’t in his armor. When he wore a simple vest and undershirt, she thought he looked quite becoming, and when his hands were bare she very much wanted to hold them.

It was silly.

She’d been forward a few times, or at least she thought she had. Some of the things she’d said to him would have definitely gotten her laid in the Wilds, but then, things did have a tendency to move at a different pace here and there.

And then, she’d thought something might happen that one time, but he’d abruptly turned cold, mumbling something about…something. She’d been too upset at the time to pay attention, instead just wanting to be held.

And he had. Held her.

And, dammit, she wanted him to do it again.

Why was he so obtuse when it came to this? Plenty of things went over Finley’s head, but this was a whole other level.

What if…

She’d started to think that perhaps he wasn’t interested after all. But if that was the case, why couldn’t he say something? Politely decline her advances or…something?

Anything would be better than this miserable uncertainty.

“You’re troubled.”

Finley blinked out of her thoughts, donning a trapped animal expression as she had quite forgotten she was standing beside the man whose hair she wished to run her fingers through. Well, honestly, she wanted to touch more than just his hair.

That was a moot point, however, if she never mustered the courage to talk to him about this.

Why was it so ridiculously hard?

“I, well,” she floundered a little, her blood first rushing to her cheeks and then draining from them as she failed to think of anything meaningful to say. She had his full attention now that she didn’t want it. “I was hoping we could talk. Alone.”

Cullen’s gaze darted around his empty office before he looked back at her. “Is there a problem?”

“No, not exactly.” Finley glanced down at the reports he’d been poring over. “You are busy, though, so I can come back later.”

Reaching up to scratch the back of his neck, Cullen shrugged a little too casually. “It’s…I can spare a few minutes.” His cheeks grew rather rosy. “If you, uh, if you’d like. You came all the way here; I wouldn’t want it to be for nothing.”

And there it was. The opportunity she’d been hoping for. Though, things had gone a lot smoother in her head.

However, her practiced words would not come.

“Your hair,” Cullen blurted after a moment. She blinked up at him, eyes wide. He looked embarrassed. He scratched at the back of his neck before his hands fell to the pommel of his blade. She could hear the leather of his gloves creaking as he gripped it. “It’s…nice.”

“Thank you.”

His gaze flitted around, desperate for something to pay attention to. When his attention landed back on the papers he’d been looking through, Finley felt her heart sinking yet again. She was losing him. “I like you.”

That brought his attention back to her.

She tried to reach for her braid again, only to find it missing. With a silent curse, she tried to loosen the tension in her shoulders with a light shrug, looking to the side, only to glance quickly back at him. His eyes hadn’t left her.

“I like you, and I thought perhaps you might…” For the love of that damned Maker everyone kept going on about. Did she have to sound so childish? She cleared her throat. “What I mean is, I was wondering if you might…” The words didn’t want to come, but she forced them. “If you might feel the same.”

“Yes,” he breathed out, only to immediately stammer, “I mean, I do…think of you. And what I might say in this sort of situation.”

“Me too.”

Cullen’s crooked grin tugging at his scar helped ease the embarrassment that was ready to settle in permanently in her. “I, uh, gathered that much.” He glanced down toward his paperwork and then back up at her, trying not to smile quite so broadly. “Since you _were_ the one to bring it up.”

Finley laced her fingers together, arms stretched down as she rocked from her heels to her toes and back. “So. There is that.”

They both started moving about the same time and then stopped, looking equally flustered as they tried to figure out exactly what the other had been planning. Finley started to reach for him as he moved forward, and then they stopped again. As Finley wondered if the universe was just against her, Cullen finally caught her hand in his. He brought it to his lips, lips barely brushing her knuckles.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“With you,” Cullen started and stopped himself. Taking in a breath, he carefully slipped his other arm around her waist pulling her closer. “I feel like… it’s almost too much to ask. But I want to—”

The door banged open.

“Commander!”


	26. Unsure Footing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea where this falls with the main story.

When Josephine had said they were going to a party at the beach, Finley had been baffled.  Images of the Storm Coast came to mind instantly, and she’d wondered how they were supposed to call it a party if they were outdoors with massive, rolling waves crashing every few seconds.

And then there were all the rocks.

And, of course, the storms.

Everything she’d been told after that had just been more mindboggling as she tried to picture the Orlesians in their ridiculous getup, trouncing around on stony shores in those high heels of theirs.

Now, as she stared at the delicate tables placed so precisely on a deck that had been built near a rather calm beach with what looked to be absolutely gentle sands and shimmery little objects that glimmered as the dipping sun’s rays gave them goodbye kisses, she couldn’t help but feel a little…

Disappointed wasn’t the word.

She was always disappointed with Orlesian affairs. There was so much…posturing and talking. It was like dealing with Tevinter spells. So complicated and convoluted when one could get the same result with a fraction of the syllables.

The truth was she’d rather liked the Storm Coast, rain and all, and so she’d been looking forward to seeing how such a party might play out.

They were practically sitting in a parlor for this little gathering, though it not having a ceiling was a vast improvement.

Still, the Orlesians talked too much for any of the birds to come to close, and Finley was to leave them alone, anyway.

It wouldn’t do to have her appear ‘witchy’.

If liking birds was all it took to be a witch…

“Maker, I think this night’s finally ending.”

Finley perked up, turning her head to find Cullen standing next to her and fiddling with his collar. He wore a black version of the Inquisition’s uniform, with all the pageantry necessary for a man of his rank, and he looked absolutely miserable. The wind was enough that his carefully groomed hair was curling in wisps—which the Orlesians had absolutely adored, much to his chagrin.

As he unbuttoned the top few buttons on his collar and let out a relieved sigh, cracking his neck and then rubbing at the base of his skull, Finley leaned toward him. “Josephine said we’re supposed to stay in dress.”

“Josephine will have to forgive me,” Cullen muttered, already moving to loosen his cuffs. “This…event was supposed to end hours ago.”

“Josephine said that whenever an Orlesian gives you an ending time, that is merely a propriety that is often gone overlooked, as it would be unbecoming to invite people to stay out all night.”

Cullen’s gaze rolled slowly toward Finley as he finished with his cuffs and took in a slow breath. “I’ll have to let her know you’re listening so well these days.”

Finley hesitated, eyeing him a moment, head tilted.

…-…

Cullen sighed as he surveilled the party again. Hardly any of the guests had left yet. They were all clustered around a few lamps as Varric entertained them with a reading of one of his books—he had to wonder if it was mere happenstance or if that had been done to give Finley a much-needed break from all the attention.

Josephine stood near the back of the crowd, talking quietly with one of the nobles who, if their posture was any indication, was too enraptured with whatever Varric was saying to care about Josephine’s points.

As Josephine happened a glance their way, her eyes widened and then she gave him a rather pointed, almost angry look.

Even as Cullen’s fingers moved to fix his cuff, he happened a glance to his side and found that he was standing by himself.

Forgetting about fixing his appearance so that the wandering eye wouldn’t criticize the Inquisition, he turned, scanning their surroundings, a bubble of panic filling his chest.

It was squelched soon enough as he saw a rather familiar figure wandering near the waves, orange hair waving gently behind her as the dress Josephine had someone gotten her into billowed a bit behind her.

Giving the party one more glance, he slipped away from the deck and toward the shore, wishing he could yank off his boots to make it easier to walk on the sand. The Orlesians would love that…the Ferelden doglord wandering around barefoot.

Josephine would hang him.

Finley wandered ahead, slipping around an outcrop of rocks near the shore.

However, just as he was getting to the outcrop, he heard a loud, unceremonious splash, followed by a quiet hiss. Darting around the rocks, he intended to make sure she was alright, but instead found a tide pool waiting right around the corner. His boot slid on the slick rock ledge around it and he fell in with an unceremonious splash.

The sand was soft beneath his hands and knees, though the water was cold enough that it didn’t count for much. However, the giggle that sounded near him banished at least some of his foul mood. Looking to the side, He saw Finley still sitting in the water, dress billowing out oddly around her as the water moved ever so gently.

She was soaked.

And so was he.

Glancing down, he frowned when he realized that almost all of his uniform was clinging to him, sopping wet.

Josephine was going to kill them.

As he stood up, frowning to find the sand stuck to his boots—Maker, there was already water _in_ his boots—and sucking his feet in place, Finley hopped up as well, her dress a bit of a hindrance as she waded over to him.

When she was close enough, he leaned against her to free his boots, all the while trying to think of what he could say to Josephine and the Orlesians that would make this less of a disaster.

“I’ll take that smile to mean you’re well,” he muttered, as he turned and walked as careful as he could back toward the rock ledge. His boots kept sinking into the wet sand, though he didn’t stay still long enough for them to get stuck again.

“Healer, remember?”

He stopped himself before asking if she’d actually hurt herself. It was a routine that he’d like to get out of, as she always seemed puzzled by his concern.

“I was hoping for a moment or two alone with you,” Finley offered when he didn’t say anything. She picked at her skirt, frowning when it floated near the top of the water around her. “I had hoped it would go a bit differently.”

Cullen paused at the rock ledge, one hand resting on it. It was still slippery. It would be wiser to just follow it around to the beach…but then they’d be seen, for sure. As he glanced the other way to see if there was somehow a way to sneak off—they’d figure something out to tell Josephine later—he found Finley standing at his side, hands resting on the rock ledge as well, though she was watching him.

Her brow pinched together when their gazes met, and she glanced away.

Without thinking, he reached out and ran his fingers across her bare shoulder and to her neck, drawing her carefully to him and resting his forehead against hers. He held her a moment, enjoying the way her arms slipped around him to hug him closer.

Then, just as he leaned his head down to claim her lips—they were already in a mess, so a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt anything and they might as well enjoy them—a voice interrupted their quiet getaway.

“Commander!”

Cullen knew that damned voice. Knew it far better than he’d ever wanted to.

He turned slowly away from Finley, gaze flickering angrily as he watched the scout come into view, peeking around the corner and managing not to fall in after them.

“Scout Jim.” Cullen’s voice was far drier than he was.

“Lady Josephine—” The man stopped mid-sentence, staring down at the two of them, clearly at a loss for words.

As the scout stood there, fish-mouthing as he tried to think of something that wouldn’t make matters worse, Finley slipped a little in the water, nearly falling to her side again.

Cullen caught her instinctively, though as he helped her back to his feet, he couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing. Her balance was better than this.

“Commander Rutherford was trying to help me out of the water,” Finley said, a little slowly, “but then I slipped, he lost his footing, and…”

“I’ll…go ask Lady Josephine about some towels,” the scout whispered, already turning away and leaving them, still in the water.

“You didn’t need to lie.”

“It was true enough,” Finley offered, idly batting at her floating skirt. “I did fall in. And you would have come to help me out, if you hadn’t fallen in, too.”

“And how did you fall in?”

“There was a creature in the water in a little shell. Like a crab, but much more intricate. I wanted to see him better.” Even as she spoke, Cullen caught her around her waist and hoisted her up so that she could sit on the ledge. She tried to stand up, only to nearly fall back on him. With a frown, she began ringing out her skirts where she was. “I’ve dealt with slick rocks before, but normally there’s some sort of tree or something nearby to grab hold of.”

Cullen nodded a moment, before catching her face in his hands and kissing her. When he moved to lean away, she chased him, arms sliding around his neck. Without thinking, he tugged her toward him, only to suck in a breath as the stand gave out under his boots and sent both of them tumbling back into the water.

When they came up, Finley was laughing again.

She reached out lightly and ran her fingers through his hair, and he could feel his curls bouncing free.

Even as he let out a sigh and tried to smooth it down—only to make his hair considerably worse—one of the Orlesian nobles, the Comtesse who was hosting their gathering, no less, came around on the sand close enough that she could peer in at them.

There was a muffled gasp and then a swiftly worded apology. “Inquisitor, if I had known you wanted to see the beach, I would have arranged a proper tour.” She came to stand closer, holding her hands out to them.

Cullen used their predicament to guide Finley by the small of her back to where the woman could reach her and help her out of the water.

He followed after, feeling more than a little self-conscious with how both their clothes clung to them.

He tried to keep his gaze off Finley, as he couldn’t help but let it wander down, and to pretend he didn’t know how his own clothes looked.

“It is so noble of you, commander, to try to help,” the Comtesse asserted, reading his embarrassment, but mistaking the cause. “Truly. I feel terrible. If you would like, stay the night and I will see to it that you get to go for a proper walk on a beach that is not so wild untamed as the ones in Ferelden.”

He wasn’t sure what else the ladies talked about as they headed back up the beach, instead imagining what it might be like to have Finley alone out here, tamed beach or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3


	27. To the Grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finley meets Nathaniel Howe.

Finley tapped the edge of her folded note against her hip as she trotted forward, taking in her desert surroundings. She normally didn’t make it this far west, but on the few occasions she had, it always baffled her that people said nothing grew there.

There were plenty of things, flowers and animals alike that were unique to this region, and she rather enjoyed crossing paths with them.

Or, she did when she wasn’t leading others around. Bull, Dorian, Alistair, and Sera were traveling with her, and they were proving to be brilliant company, as usual.

However, the closer they got to their destination, the more fidgety Finley got, and the faster she walked.

The others were a good few yards behind her now. As Dorian called out that they didn’t know whatever spell she was using to stay above the sands, she paused and looked down. She had a variety of spells that she cast on herself to help her get away from pursuers, and she kept realizing that she still used them, without sharing her knowledge with others.

Just as she considered going back to try to cast the spell on the others—she wasn’t completely sure she could, honestly—she noticed a figure down in a small grove of trees at the bottom of the sand dune she’d just crested.

She stilled, forgetting her companions as her fingers gripped her letter tighter.

The Warden-Commander, Dev Brosca had sent word that she was coming back from the far west, and she had said she would meet with Finley. Ever since she’d gotten the letter, she’d had butterflies in her stomach.

Warden-Commander Brosca was one of the heroes who stopped the Blight, and if Alistair’s stories were accurate—he was an honest sort, so they probably were—then Finley owed a great deal to her. Alistair may have slain the archdemon, but it had been Warden-Commander Brosca’s intelligence and willingness to take charge that had gathered their army and given Alistair the opportunity to end the Blight.

She was a hero, and Finley could hardly believe she’d get to meet the dwarf, in the flesh.

It seemed too good to be true.

Barely able to keep herself from bounding down the sloping dune, she hurried, barely noticing the calls from her companions to wait.

However, as she drew closer to the figure in the grove, she paused. It was not a dwarf waiting for her in that small copse, but a human man.

He was tall, with dark hair that hung to his shoulders, a prominent nose on his angular face, and a tan from wandering in the outdoors often. More importantly, however, he wore the blue and gray of the grey wardens.

He noticed her before she could decide if she wanted to backtrack and wait for the others, and held his hand up in greeting before starting toward her.

“You’re the inquisitor, I assume?”

She stood a little straighter and nodded. “I’m here to meet the Warden-commander.”

“And I’m here with an apology on her behalf.” The man stooped into a short bow, one that echoed years or practice.

A noble?

Finley appraised him again, wondering if she was supposed to bow back or ask for a title or… “She…couldn’t come, could she?”

“She’s been delayed.” He paused and then motioned to himself. “I’m Nathaniel Howe, and I came to take you to her.”

Instantly, Finley perked up. “So I can still meet her?”

Nathaniel seemed a bit taken aback by the question, though he was quickly distracted by the sounds of Finley’s companions coming down the slopes behind her. He started to reach for his bow, but stopped himself when he saw who was coming.

No doubt because of Alistair.

Sure enough, he offered Alistair a quick salute and then motioned off toward the west. “Dev is going to be thrilled to see you.”

Finley listened intently as the two wardens exchanged greetings. While Alistair’s taste in friends wasn’t always the best—that he could enjoy Garrett Hawke’s company was beyond her understanding—this Nathaniel character seemed alright.

Once they’d had a chance to introduce everyone, Nathaniel looked back at Finley and cocked his head. “Shall we?”

The fact that he was asking her because she was technically the highest ranking person present flew right over her head, and she had to take in a slow, steady breath before she could get too excited.

She was going to meet the Warden-commander after all.

With a nod, Nathaniel led the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think, and if you'd like to see more of these two, you can read my long fic Andraste's Witch :3


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